BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC   (1899) 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIS  MUSIC  uwo) 

MELOMANIACS   (1903) 
OVERTONES   (1904) 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OP  DRAMATISTS  uww 

VISIONARIES   (1905) 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OF  SUPERMEN  <i9<») 

PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST   (1910) 

FRANZ  LISZT.      ILLUSTRATED   (1911) 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE   (1912) 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS   (191B) 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS   (1915) 

UNICORNS   (1917) 

BEDOUINS   (1920) 

STEEPLEJACK.      TWO  VOLUMES    (1920) 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 


THE 
PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  BOOK  OF 
A  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  MOMENTS 


BY 
JAMES  HUNEKER 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,   1913,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
PUBLISHED    MAY,  1913 


JOHN  HOWARD   McFADDEN 

A  LOVER   OF  THE   FINE   ARTS 


"Convictions  are  prisons  .  .  .  The  experi 
ence  of  seven  solitudes  .  .  .  New  ears  for 
new  music.  New  eyes  for  the  most  re 
mote  things  .  .  .  The  pathos  of  distance." 
—Fritdrich  Nicttscht. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 3 

II.    THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 16 

Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life    .....  26 

The  Recrudescence  of  Evelyn     ....  29 

More  Memories 36 

III.  A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 49 

A  Tragic  Comedian 64 

IV.  THE    REAL    ISOLDE— WAGNER'S    AUTOBIOG 

RAPHY       70 

Wagner's  Autobiography 82 

V.    CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 103 

Whistler 103 

Arthur  B.  Davies — A  Painter- Visionary     .  in 

VI.    MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS      ....  125 

The  Matisse  Drawings 137 

Pablo  Picasso 141 

Ten  Years  Later 148 

Lithographs  of  Toulouse-Lautrec     .     .     .  157 

VII.    NEW  PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST  .     .  161 

Art  in  Cologne  and  Cassel 161 

Art  in  Frankfort 171 

New  York — Cosmopolis 181 

English  Masters  in  the  Collection  of  John 

Howard  McFadden 202 

How  Widor  Played  at  St.  Sulpice    ...  208 
vii 


469233 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

VIII.    THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 219 

John  M.  Synge 228 

A  Poet  of  Visions 235 

IX.    THE  ARTIST  AND  His  WIFE 245 

X.    BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 264 

Gautier  the  Journalist 264 

Maeterlinck's  Macbeth 273 

Pater  Reread 279 

A  Precursor  of  Poe 285 

Mme.  Daudet's  Souvenirs 290 

The  De  Lenz  Beethoven 296 

Ideas  and  Images 303 

The  Eternal  Philanderer 311 

The  New  English  Nietzsche 319 

The  Last  Days  of  Verlaine 325 

XI.    THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 332 

XII.    IN  PRAISE  OF  FIREWORKS 343 

XIII.     A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES      ....  347 

Jacobean  Adventures       ......  357 

XIV.    THE  PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY     .     .  367 

XV.    A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS    ....  386 


Vlll 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

MORE  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  passed 
since  I  first  entered  the  Cafe  Guerbois,  on  the 
Batignolles,  where  begins  the  avenue  de  Clichy. 
A  student  of  music,  sans  le  sou,  I  lived  in  a 
little  street  that  ran  off  the  boulevard  des  Ba 
tignolles,  No.  5  rue  Puteaux,  in  a  sunless  room, 
at  the  top  of  a  dark,  damp  building.  I  studied 
finger-problems  on  a  tuneless  upright  pianoforte. 
Like  the  instrument,  I  was  out  of  tune  myself, 
for  I  was  hungry  at  least  eighteen  hours  of  the 
twenty-four.  Dining,  as  I  grandly  called  it,  was 
an  important  event  in  my  day;  a  bowl  of  choco 
late  and  a  dry  roll  had  to  suffice  me  until  the 
evening.  Then  what  joy!  soup,  succeeded  by 
the  meat  of  the  same,  followed  by  a  salad  and 
cheese.  The  wine  cost  eight  sous  a  litre;  it  was 
sharp,  thin,  and  blue:  yet  it  warmed,  and  when 
one  is  not  twenty,  and  possesses  a  ferocious  ap 
petite,  coupled  with  a  yearning  for  the  ideal,  the 
human  machine  needs  much  stoking  to  keep  up 
steam  and  soul. 

It  was  not  every  day  I  could  afford  to  sit  upon 
the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  Guerbois;  there  I  proudly 
took  my  coffee  and  smoked  in  flush  times,  after 
my  humble  dinner  lower  down  the  Batignolles. 

3 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

The  place  was  always  crowded,  specially  fete- 
days  and  Sunday  nights.  I  knew  by  sight  the 
celebrities  of  the  new  painting  crowd  (a  pupil  of 
Bonnat  had  disdainfully  named  them  for  me): 
Manet,  Desboutins,  the  engraver,  giant  Cladel, 
the  novelist,  Philippe  Burty,  Zacharie  Astruc, 
poet-sculptor,  friend  of  Baudelaire,  and  Degas, 
greatest  of  artist-psychologists.  Zola  came,  too, 
though  I  never  saw  him.  I  had  eyes  for  none 
but  Manet,  with  his  fair  hair  and  beard,  his  rest 
less  gestures,  so  full  of  eloquence.  He  and  his 
crowd  had  been  sneeringly  christened  the  Ba- 
tignolles  School,  and  the  phrase  stuck,  much  to 
their  mingled  rage  and  amusement. 

It  was  one  chilly  March  night,  with  occasional 
gusts  of  rain  and  wind,  that  I  hugged  my  dreams 
in  the  Guerbois.  The  clicking  domino  games 
did  not  disturb  me,  nor  did  the  high  excited 
voices  of  some  painters  discussing  divided  tones 
distract  my  interior  vision.  I  bought  a  maza- 
gran  of  coffee,  and  I  possessed  a  box  of  tobacco, 
and  I  had  worked  at  the  piano  exactly  ten  hours 
that  day,  notwithstanding  the  icy  temperature 
of  my  miserable  attic  and  the  intermittent  objec 
tions  of  my  neighbours,  expressed  in  profane  and 
at  times  wooden  terms:  bootjacks  and  sticks 
played  a  rataplan  on  my  door,  but  without  effect. 
I  had  mastered  a  page  of  Chopin;  I  was  happy; 
I  was  at  the  Cafe  Guerbois;  I  was  in  Paris;  I 
was  young.  And  being  of  a  practical  tempera 
ment,  I  read  Browning  every  morning  to  pre 
pare  myself  for  the  struggle  with  the  world. 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

The  door  banged  violently,  and  in  an  airy  blast 
and  amid  volleys  of  remonstrance  from  a  dozen 
disturbed  groups,  there  entered  a  man,  who 
hastily  advanced  to  my  table,  embraced  me,  drip 
ping  wet  as  he  was,  and  removing  a  battered  silk 
hat,  sat  down,  crying: 

"Dear  young  chap,  order  me  a  drink,  order  « 
yourself  a  drink.    To-night  I  possess  money. 
Yes,  I!" 

Our  neighbours  hardly  glanced  at  him  now; 
the  painters  did  not  cease  a  moment  in  their 
objurgation  of  burnt-umber  and  academic  brush- 
work.  They  knew  the  poet.  So  did  I;  but  I 
had  never  seen  him  with  money  before.  It  was 
a  rare  event  in  both  our  lives.  His  frock-coat 
was  frayed;  his  shirt  was  carefully  concealed, 
while  about  his  neck  there  was  twisted  a  silk 
handkerchief.  And  it  was  clean.  If  he  did  not 
show  his  cuffs  when  he  folded  his  arms  on  the 
table,  his  hands  were  those  of  a  poet  —  long, 
beautifully  modelled,  and  white.  Despite  his 
poverty,  an  air  of  personal  purity  surrounded 
my  friend,  with  his  uncertain,  pale-blue  eyes  of 
a  dreamer.  What  a  head  he  exhibited  when  the 
damp,  shapeless  hat  was  lifted.  The  brow  was 
too  wide  for  its  height,  but  yet  a  brow  of  exceed-  < 
ing  power  and  meaning;  it  was  lined  with  paral 
lel  wrinkles,  and  there  were  deep  depressions  at 
the  temples,  which  made  him  appear  older  than 
he  was.  He  had  led  such  an  exhausting  mental 
and  emotional  life  that  he  seemed  nearer  fifty 
than  forty.  His  eyeballs,  swimming  in  mystic 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

light  and  prominent,  were  faded  when  his  brain 
was  not  excited  by  some  ardent  thought,  which 
was  seldom.  He  wore  a  moustache  and  an 
imperial  to  conceal  the  narrowness  of  his  weak 
chin;  his  jaws  sloped  abruptly  to  a  point;  his 
whole  appearance  was  fantastic,  a  little  sinister, 
and  sometimes  terrifying.  But  he  was  a  gentle 
man.  Was  he  not  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
Grand  Master  of  Malta?  Was  he  not  the  com 
ing  glory  of  French  literature?  Tossing  his  long, 
fair  hair  from  his  brow,  and  looking  at  me  with 
those  faded  eyes,  the  expression  of  which  could 
be  so  sparkling,  so  satirical,  he  exclaimed: 

"I  am  a  friend  of  Richard  Wagner's."  It  was 
as  if  one  should  proudly  say,  "I  knew  Jupiter 
Tonans."  Pride  satanic  was  his  foible. 

We  drank.  I  asked  him:  "Is  Wagner  agree 
able  in  conversation?  " 

He  shrugged  his  contempt  for  my  idiotic  ques 
tion.  "Mt.  Etna,  is  it  agreeable  in  conversa 
tion?" 

"There  are  only  romantics  and  imbeciles," 
was  another  of  his  remarks;  he  had  forgotten 
time,  and  did  not  realise  that  we  were  in  the  full 
swing  of  realism  of  plein-air  painting.  But  once 
a  poet,  always  a  dreamer;  except  Victor  Hugo, 
who  was  both  poet  and  business  man. 

He  asked  me  if  he  could  visit  me  and  play 
some  of  his  compositions.  He  had  set  certain 
verses  of  Baudelaire's.  "Wagner  likes  it,"  he 
said  with  simplicity.  I  had  met  him  a  few 
months  before,  but  I  knew  him  for  a  man  of 
6 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

genius.  Genius!  Those  were  the  mad  days 
when  a  phrase  made  one  ecstatic,  when  a  word 
became  a  beckoning  star.  Genius  was  a  starry 
word.  I  had  talked  to  Walt  Whitman  at  Cam- 
den  in  1877;  but  Walt  looked  more  like  a  Quaker 
farmer  than  a  genius.  Vaguely  romantic,  I  felt 
that  genius  must  be  poor,  unrecognised,  long  in 
hair,  short  as  to  purse.  Even  disrepute  could 
not  destroy  my  ideal.  My  French  poet  was 
naturally  neat,  charming  in  his  manner,  and 
the  most  wonderful  talker  in  the  world.  Bar- 
bey  d'Aurevilly  could  discourse  with  the  magic 
tongue  of  a  lost  archangel;  but  Barbey,  with  all 
his  coloured  volubility,  could  not  improvise  for 
you  entire  stories,  books,  plays,  during  an  even 
ing  in  a  hot,  crowded,  clattering  cafe.  These 
miracles  were  nightly  performed  by  my  poor 
dear  friend.  How  did  he  do  it?  I  do  not  know. 
He  was  a  genius,  and  lived  somewhere  in  the 
rue  des  Martyrs.  That  he  barely  managed  to 
make  ends  meet  we  knew;  we  also  knew  that 
he  never  sold  any  of  his  stories  or  novels  or  plays. 
True,  he  seldom  wrote  them.  He  only  talked 
them,  and  the  prowling  animals  of  Bohemian 
journalism,  sniffing  the  feast  of  good  things, 
would  pay  for  the  drinks,  and  later  the  poet 
had  the  pleasure  of  reading  his  stolen  ideas,  in 
a  mediocre  setting,  filling  some  cheap  journal. 
How  he  flayed  the  malefactors.  How  he  re 
proached  them  in  that  passionate,  trembling  bari 
tone  of  his.  No  matter,  he  always  returned  to 
the  cafe,  drank  with  the  crew,  and  told  other 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

tales  that  were  as  haunting.  I  firmly  believe  he 
had  at  last  come  to  tolerate  me  because  I  did 
not  parody  his  improvisations. 

This  night  he  was  uneasy.  He  asked  me  the 
whereabouts  of  Manet.  No,  I  had  not  seen  him. 
Then  he  repeated  Manet's  latest  mot:  Manet, 
before  a  picture  of  Meissonier,  the  famous 
Charge  of  the  Cuirassiers. 

"Good,  very  good!"  exclaimed  the  painter  of 
Olympe.  "All  is  steel  except  the  breastplates." 
Meissonier  was  furious  when  a  kind  friend  re 
peated  this  story  of  the  painter,  derided  then,  a 
king  among  artists  to-day.  The  poet  predicted 
this.  " Wait,"  he  said  —  "wait.  Richard  Wag 
ner,  Manet,  the  crazy  '  Ibsen,  myself  —  wait. 
Our  day  is  to  come."  Remember,  all  this  was 
long  ago.  He  was  a  critic  as  well  as  a  poet,  as 
might  be  guessed  of  Baudelaire's  cherished 
companion. 

We  drank  in  silence.  He  rattled  coin  in  his 
pocket,  and  smiled  at  me  imperiously.  "Yes," 
he  seemed  to  say,  "my  hour  of  triumph  is  at 
hand."  I  asked  him  questions  with  my  eyes. 
He  stretched  a  friendly  hand  across  the  table, 
fairly  bursting  with  pride. 

"Hola,  young  American!  It  is  true;  to-day 
I  have  sold  a  play.  Here  is  the  earnest  money." 
He  showed  a  palm  full  of  gold  pieces.  Then  he 
glanced  furtively  about  him.  Not  a  literary 
buzzard  was  in  the  cafe.  Some  one  back  of  us 
cried  the  praises  of  a  monster  magic-lantern  exhi 
bition  that  had  been  given  in  the  Clichy  Quarter. 
8 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

I  saw  that  my  poet  was  interested.  He  turned 
his  head,  listened  for  a  few  moments,  then  he 
scornfully  said: 

' '  They  call  that  a  magic  lantern !  I  saw  a  magic 
lantern  once,  and  on  a  scale  that  would  have 
frightened  these  poor  devils."  I  felt  that  some 
thing  was  coming;  but  I  sat  still,  knowing  the 
slightest  interruption  might  arrest  the  story. 
He  leaned  back,  put  his  pipe  between  his  teeth, 
and  in  the  tones  of  a  noctambulist  improvised  his 
tale.  His  eyes  at  times  seemed  to  have  a  deli 
cate  film  over  them,  yet  sufficiently  translucent 
to  allow  a  gleam  of  blue  to  penetrate  the  misty 
covering.  I  trembled.  He  spoke  slowly, —  and 
Remy  de  Gourmont,  philosopher  and  prose- 
master,  will  bear  witness  to  the  outline  of  the 
story;  once  Villiers  had  sketched  it  for  him: 

"When  I  was  in  Africa  —  don't  stare,  I've 
been  all  over  the  world  —  I  found  myself,  some 
fifteen  years  ago,  on  the  border  of  the  Red  Sea. 
Though  winter  by  the  calendar,  it  was  furnace- 
hot  in  this  gehenna  of  cactus  and  sand.  I  had 
affiliated  with  a  small  tribe  of  Arabs, —  I  was 
disguised  en  Arabe, —  and  we  rode  all  night  to 
escape  the  English,  who  were  behind  us  with  two 
battalions.  El-Ferenghy,  our  chief,  a  man  of 
profound  learning  and  unheard-of  bravery,  did 
not  act  as  if  discouraged  when  the  scouts  he  had 
posted  at  our  rear  reported  that  the  red-coats 
were  not  far  away.  We  skirted  the  sandy  shores 
of  the  horrible  sea,  and  reached  finally  a  vast 
ravine  between  two  gigantic  heaps,  rather  moun- 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

tains,  of  sand.  El-Ferenghy  deployed  his  forces 
into  the  deepest  of  the  ravines  and  the  most 
inaccessible  part  of  this  arid  wilderness.  It 
looked  like  the  bottom  of  a  sea  the  water  of 
which  had  vanished  after  some  cataclysm  in  a 
prehistoric  past.  We  pitched  no  tents,  but 
squatted  under  the  rays  of  the  burning  sun  and 
waited.  My  nerves  drove  me  to  imprudence. 
I  ventured  to  ask  the  chief  if  we  were  not  in  a 
trap:  our  horses'  hoofs  had  left  clear  traces  for 
the  enemy;  and  to  give  battle  against  such  odds 
would  be  impossible.  He  pierced  me  with  his 
magnetic  eyes.  'Frank?  he  proudly  said,  and 
oh!  the  indescribable  pride  of  his  voice  —  'Frank, 
let  us  trust  to  Allah.  I  have  magic,  too.  Rest.7 
"The  sun  was  still  overhead;  the  earth  a 
gigantic  reflector;  my  brains  wabbled  in  my  skull 
as  if  cooking.  Suddenly  our  captain  gave  orders 
in  a  harsh  voice.  The  Arabs  jumped  to  their 
feet  and,  in  single  file,  raced  about  in  circles, 
firing  their  long,  archaic  muskets,  yelling  like 
devils.  'We  are  lost,'  I  muttered,  for  my  ear 
had  distinguished  the  sound  of  answering  guns 
from  a  distance.  'The  English  —  they  must  be 
advancing.'  Quivering,  I  awaited  the  onslaught. 
I  saw  El-Ferenghy  in  the  background,  on  a 
hillock,  holding  a  glittering  dial  full  in  the 
sunshine.  He  shifted  it  at  every  angle  in  the 
most  incomprehensible  manner,  his  devil's  eyes 
puckered  with  cold  malice.  Was  it  madness? 
Again  there  was  distant  firing,  and  new  panto 
mime  on  our  part.  A  word  from  the  chief,  and 
10 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

his  men  dropped  in  their  tracks,  crouching  earth 
ward.  The  rattling  of  shots  ceased.  Our  men 
dispersed,  as  the  captain  hid  the  dial  in  his  robes, 
and  we  sat  down  silently  to  our  evening  meal. 

"At  moonrise,  after  we  had  slept  a  few  hours, 
there  was  another  call  to  arms,  and  once  more 
the  mysterious  manoeuvres  were  repeated.  This 
time  I  could  distinctly  hear  the  cries  of  the  Eng 
lish.  They  betrayed  an  accent  of  surprise  — 
shall  I  say  terror?  El-Ferenghy  manipulated  his 
medal  of  metal,  and  the  firing,  screaming,  rac 
ing,  and  confusion  ceased  only  at  the  break  of 
dawn.  We  tethered  our  horses,  which  in  this 
second  mock  sortie  had  been  driven  full  speed 
around  the  sandy,  moon-shaped  enclosure.  At 
noon  it  was  all  begun  over  again.  There  was 
half-hearted  firing  from  the  English  lines.  Their 
men  no  longer  cheered.  We  must  have  been 
only  a  few  hundred  yards  from  them,  for  we  could 
note  certain  movements.  A  despairing  silence 
settled  on  their  encampment.  During  the  after 
noon  they  neither  fired  nor  answered  our  unseen 
challenges.  What  had  occurred?  I  asked  the 
chief.  This  time  he  smiled  indulgently: 

"'  To-morrow  night/  he  whispered  —  '  to-mor 
row  night  they  will  no  longer  fight  with  ghosts, 
but  the  ghosts  will  fight  them.'  I  understood. 
I  shivered.  Unhappy  men,  what  chance  had 
they  against  devils!  I  am  a  Frenchman,  I  am 
not  a  lover  of  the  English;  but,  after  all,  they 
are  of  our  white  race.  I  pitied  them. 

"The  chief  had  spoken  the  truth:  they  were 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

fighting  ghosts  —  worse  still,  shadows  from  the 
sky;  they  were  warring  against  the  impalpable, 
and  at  first,  flushed  by  the  success  of  their  at 
tack,  by  the  number  of  seeming  slain  that  had 
fallen  before  their  volleys,  they  had  dashed  upon 
the  Arabs  only  to  grasp  at  —  nothing.  Even 
our  dead  had  been  carried  away.  This  comedy 
of  terror  had  been  enacted  under  the  moon,  and 
the  bewilderment  of  our  foe  was  supplemented 
by  something  disquieting.  The  white  soldiers 
refused  to  fight  phantoms.  There  were  devils 
abroad,  they  asserted.  The  troops  turned  sulky, 
and  we  heard  the  officers'  agitated  voices  berat 
ing  their  cowardice,  and  urging  them  to  the  con 
flict.  Then  brandy  must  have  been  dealt  out; 
during  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  there  was 
a  determined  and  vigorous  sally,  accompanied 
by  a  frightful  fusilade.  But  to  no  avail.  They 
felt  the  returning  fire  of  the  Arabs,  they  saw 
them  tumble  in  heaps  upon  the  ground,  but  when 
they  attacked  them  with  their  brutal  bayonets, 
they  prodded  only  the  sand.  All  this  time  the 
demon  El-Ferenghy,  immobile  as  a  statue,  con 
sulted  his  little  hellish  chronometer,  while  his 
men  spun  around,  shrieked,  and  shot  off  their 
pieces  into  the  empty  air.  It  was  no  longer  an 
enigma.  I  gazed  into  the  sky,  knowing  that 
there  the  battle  was  fiercest  waged. 

"The  moon  sank  from  sight  soon  after  mid 
night.     A  whistle  summoned  us  to  action.     This 
time  it  was  no  mimic  war,  or  cruel  hoax.     We 
clambered  up  the  sand-dunes  and  without  warn- 
12 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

ing  fell  upon  the  English.  It  was  a  too  easy 
victory.  Half  of  them  were  bloated  corpses; 
hideous  exertions  under  the  blaze  of  the  African 
sun  had  killed  them;  the  others  were  too  weak 
or  frightened  to  resist.  We  slew  them  to  a  man. 
And  upon  their  congested  faces,  when  the  sun 
shot  its  level  beams  in  the  morning,  the  expres 
sion  was  one  of  supreme  horror.  We  rode  away 
to  the  nearest  oasis,  leaving  our  enemy  with  the 
vultures.  I  refused  an  English  sword  offered 
me  by  El-Ferenghy,  for  I  loathed  the  man, 
loathed  his  magic.  A  week  later  I  escaped.  I 
had  been  told  that  the  motto  of  his  band  was 
that  of  the  Ancient  of  Assassinations:  'All  is 
permitted.  Nothing  is  true.'  Ah,  my  friend, 
in  the  East  everything  may  be  expected.  There 
the  old  magic  still  prevails.  There  the  age  of 
miracles  has  not  passed." 

His  voice  came  in  whispers.  From  my  cor 
ner  I  blinked  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  the  hypno 
tised.  Yet  I  was  not  satisfied.  What  had  really 
happened?  What  the  magic  employed?  Why 
the  tactics  of  the  Arabs  and  the  senseless  be 
haviour  of  the  brave  British?  I  stammered: 

"  And  —  wherefore  —  tell  me " 

He  smiled,  answering: 

"You  spoke  of  magic  lanterns.  El-Ferenghy 
had  a  real  magic  lantern.'*  I  betrayed  my  igno 
rance  of  his  meaning. 

"Must  one,  then,  explain  everything  in  this 
stupid  world,  where  electricity  is  performing  such 
wonders,  where  my  master  Edison " 

,  13 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

I  interrupted  his  impending  rhapsody: 

"Yes,  cher  maitre,  I  understand  as  far  as  the 
shining  dial,  but  there  I  stop.  Why  should  the 
English  continue  firing  in  the  air  at  nothing?  " 

"They  did  not  fire  in  the  air  at  nothing.  They 
fired  at  living  Arabs;  they  saw  them  fall;  and 
when  they  attempted  to  seize  them,  they  had 
disappeared;  their  dead,  too,  had  disappeared 
with  them." 

"I  give  it  up,"  I  sourly  replied;  "I  never  was 
good  at  riddles." 

"Ha!  You  give  it  up,  you  young  materialist 
who  will  not  acknowledge  that  life  is  a  miracle, 
living  as  we  do  on  a  ball  of  mud  and  fire  balanced 
in  space,  you  give  up  this  story  of  a  magic  toy 
—  a  mere  toy,  I  tell  you,  in  the  hands  of  a  man 
who  knew  more  than  all  our  men  of  science.  Yet 
you  pretend  there  is  no  devil  in  our  universe  — 
you,  prophet  and  seer  not  out  of  your  teens  — 
He  paused  for  want  of  breath.  The  cafe  was 
quite  empty.  Soon  the  lights  would  be  extin 
guished. 

I  grasped  my  chance: 

"And  do  you,  dear  poet,  believe  in  the  devil?" 

He  crossed  himself  piously,  for  he  was,  even  in 
his  most  blasphemous  moods,  a  sincere  Roman 
Catholic.  Then,  in  a  hollow  voice  that  froze 
my  youthful  blood,  he  quaveringly  concluded: 

"El-Ferenghy  was  not  the  devil;  but  he  under 
stood  the  mechanism  of  the  mirage.  Mirages 
are  frequent  phenomena  in  that  steaming-hot 
region.  He  knew  how  to  control  the  mirage  — 

.14 


THE  MAGIC  LANTERN 

that's  all.  With  his  round  steel  mirror,  his  magic 
lantern,  he  threw  a  mirage  of  his  band  upon  the 
sands,  making  a  false  picture,  which  the  English 
mistook  for  reality.  Hence  the  alarums,  the  at 
tacks,  the  firing,  the  ghostly  pursuits,  the  sicken 
ing  discouragement,  and  the  cruel  denouement. 
Have  I  made  myself  clear,  jeune  fumiste  ?  " 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  "there  is  but  one  master  of  the 
mirage  in  Paris,  and  his  name,  his  name " 

The  head  waiter  turned  out  the  lights,  and  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  avenue  de  Clichy.  He 
bade  me  a  short,  disagreeable  good-night,  and  I 
walked  in  a  very  depressed  humour  down  the 
Batignolles.  It  was  the  last  time  I  ever  enjoyed 
the  irony,  fluted  and  poignant,  of  that  rare  clair 
voyant  soul,  Villiers  de  1'Isle  Adam. 


II 

THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 


THE  time  has  passed  when  a  novel  of  Mr. 
George  Moore  is  anathema  to  the  householder 
in  Suburbia.  Indeed,  some  Philistines  have  rec 
ognised  in  his  work  a  distinctly  moral  flavour. 
Such  a  humanitarian  tale  as  Esther  Waters,  not 
withstanding  its  condemnation  by  the  London 
book  stalls,  has  been  acclaimed  a  victory  for  law 
and  order.  To-day  many  of  Mr.  Moore's  admir 
ers,  possibly  the  author  himself,  find  the  moral 
stress  in  this  book  rather  too  obvious.  But  to 
the  delight  of  the  unregenerate  who  love  litera 
ture  qua  literature,  Esther  Waters  was  followed 
by  Celibates,  the  very  quintessence  of  Moore- 
ishness.  This  volume  contained  one  story  that 
would  have  made  the  reputation  of  a  half  dozen 
"big  sellers"  among  latter-day  novelists.  I  refer 
to  Mildred  Lawson,  of  which  the  late  Henry  Har- 
land  remarked  that  it  was  worthy  of  Flaubert  if 
it  had  been  written  in  good  English.  The  Amer 
ican  novelist  was  more  witty  than  truthful,  for 
Mildred  Lawson  contains  some  of  Mr.  Moore's 
most  notable  achievements  in  prose,  a  fact  that 
did  not  escape  the  eye  of  Mr.  Harry  Thurston 
16 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

Peck,  who  had  the  courage  to  write:  "George 
Moore  is  the  greatest  literary  artist  who  has 
struck  the  chords  of  English  since  the  death  of 
Thackeray." 

Some  one  has  said  that  the  English-speaking 
world  is  divided  into  three  parts  —  those  who 
read  Moore  and  like  him;  those  who  hate  his 
name;  those  who  never  heard  of  him.  Certainly 
Moore  has  had  the  faculty  —  or  the  good  luck  — 
of  bringing  foam  to  critical  lips.  He  is  still  re 
garded  by  many  as  a  rowdy  writer.  The  very 
title  of  Mike  Fletcher  evoked  a  shudder,  and  I 
may  add  that  I  saw  Mr.  Moore  distinctly  shud 
der  at  Bayreuth  when  I  expressed  my  admiration 
for  that  virile  story.  But  it  is  dangerous  to 
indict  a  man  for  sins  of  coarseness  as  exempli 
fied  in  a  few  of  his  earlier  productions,  when 
the  body  of  his  later  work  is  of  such  a  high  order 
as  Moore's.  He  has  always  had  in  him  some 
thing  of  the  gross  and  mystical.  As  a  critic  of 
painting  he  is  one  of  the  five  or  six  in  Europe 
whose  opinion  is  worth  while.  He  it  was  who 
first  gave  battle  in  England  for  the  group  of  1877, 
the  Impressionists,  Manet,  Degas,  Monet,  Re 
noir,  Pissaro,  Berthe  Morisot,  Whistler,  and  the 
rest.  He  performed  the  same  critical  function 
for  Verlaine,  Rimbaud,  Kahn,  Jules  Laforgue,  to 
mention  a  few  of  the  new  men  of  the  early  eigh 
ties.  An  ardent  Wagnerite,  he  has  written  by 
all  odds,  and  in  any  language,  the  best  novel  of 
musical  people,  Evelyn  Innes,  while  naturalistic 
tales,  such  as  A  Mummer's  Wife,  John  Norton, 

17 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

A  Modern  Lover  —  this  last  a  study  of  London 
art  life  —  though  often  unpleasant,  are  all  very 
powerful. 

Mr.  Moore's  real  debut  in  English  letters  caused 
a  sensation.  The  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man 
was  a  book  that  stirred  up  the  wrath  of  all  pa 
triotic  Britons.  It  was  Gallic,  supercilious,  mod 
ern,  very  iconoclastic;  it  was  not  sweet  or  senti 
mental;  the  youthful  writer  delighted  in  sweep 
ing  from  the  shelf  of  honest  British  libraries 
whole  rows  of  beloved  figures.  Even  George 
Meredith  was  not  spared,  and  Thomas  Hardy, 
noble  master,  was  rudely  jolted  by  the  newly  re 
turned  Parisian-Irishman.  Naturally  there  were 
heard  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded  —  not,  how 
ever,  Meredith's  or  Hardy's;  but  complaints 
emanating  from  soft-hearted  folk  who  disliked 
this  ruthless  smashing  of  idols.  "You  must  all 
disappear,"  cried  George  Moore;  "you  are  of  the 
past,  your  place  is  needed  by  new-comers."  And 
he  was  one  of  them.  Never  did  the  younger 
generation  come  knocking  so  rudely  at  the  door. 
Moore  was  called,  inter  alia,  the  Irish  Swinburne, 
the  Irish  Zola,  and  later,  the  Irish  Huysmans. 
In  reality  the  Confessions  betray  a  greater  affin 
ity  to  the  early  books  of  Maurice  Barres.  Both 
men  were  individualists;  both  believed  they  had 
a  message.  And  the  Irish  writer,  when  he  had 
finished  painting  the  artistic  life  of  London  dur 
ing  the  last  two  decades  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  went  back  to  his  native  soil,  and  this  odys- 
sey  he  soon  began  to  relate  to  the  world. 
18 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

Sociologists  say  that  after  forty  the  "homing" 
instinct  shows  itself  in  a  man.  Whether  this 
may  be  predicated  of  the  man  of  genius  I  do  not 
know.  Mr.  Moore  was  restless  for  several  years 
before  he  fled  the  fogs  of  London,  and  it  seemed 
that  Paris  should  have  been  his  logical  stopping- 
place.  He  preferred  Dublin.  He  was  wise 
enough  to  see  that  despite  the  number  of  books 
written  about  Ireland  there  were  still  several  un 
written.  He  had  mocked  his  country  and  its 
religion  in  previous  novels;  though  A  Drama  in 
Muslin  (published  in  1886)  proved  to  be  very 
stirring  and  a  veracious  picture  of  the  hard  times 
during  the  Land  League.  But  it  was  not  an 
Irishman  who  wrote  the  book;  Paris  and  Flau 
bert,  Paris  and  Zola,  Paris  and  many  other  de 
lightful  things,  were  still  fermenting  in  the  cere 
bral  cells  of  the  young  writer.  When,  however, 
in  1903  The  Un tilled  Field  appeared,  the  dis 
tinctively  Celtic  note  was  present.  Abundantly 
so.  There  was  superb  writing  in  Evelyn  Innes 
and  Sister  Teresa;  and  The  Un  tilled  Field  showed 
no  falling  off  in  literary  quality.  Frankly,  I  am 
not  afraid  to  avow  that  Flaubert,  the  Flaubert 
of  Trois  Contes,  would  not  have  been  ashamed 
to  sign  some  of  its  pages. 

n 

The  Lake  has  been  widely  read  and  variously 
discussed  in  Roman  Catholic  circles,  both  at 
home  and  abroad.  English  reviewers  praised  its 

19 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

delicate  art  and  its  harmonious  descriptions; 
but  in  London,  as  in  New  York,  the  tale  of  one 
more  recalcitrant  priest  matters  little  to  those 
outside  the  fold.  The  priest  in  fiction  is  becom 
ing  a  drug,  and  his  only  excuse  for  existence  be 
tween  book  covers  is  his  flesh  and  blood  qual 
ities.  Is  he  a  viable  being?  That  he  can  be 
made  so  is  proved  by  Mr.  Moore's  hero,  and  in 
another  art,  that  of  the  theatre,  by  Lavedan's 
The  Duel  But  the  Abbe  Daniel  is  a  different 
man  from  Father  Oliver  Gogarty,  parish  priest, 
inarticulate  poet,  and  loving  idealist.  For  that 
easily  satisfied  quantity,  the  general  public,  there 
would  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  success  of  Lavedan's 
stage  puppet  over  Moore's  religion- weary  ecclesi 
astic.  In  a  word,  Oliver  Gogarty  lacks  the  tang 
of  popularity.  His  name  and  the  colour  of  his 
soul  are  against  him. 

The  priest  who  allows  himself  to  doubt  his 
mission,  who  rebels  mentally  before  the  dogmas 
of  his  faith,  is  not  so  uncommon  as  one  might 
suppose.  When  he  openly  challenges  the  author 
ity  of  Mother  Church  he  soon  finds  his  level. 
Like  rotten  fruit,  he  drops  from  the  branch  of 
the  great  central  tree.  Publicly  he  is  not  chal 
lenged  for  his  disobedience,  whatever  may  be 
the  disciplinary  precautions  and  kind  advice  ten 
dered  him  by  his  bishop  or  friends.  That  the 
determining,  or  rather,  let  us  say,  the  initial 
cause  of  his  defection  may  have  been  a  woman's 
love  is  a  fact  too  frequently  observed  to  be 
doubted.  Mr.  Moore  in  one  of  his  early  novels 
20 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

said  something  to  this  effect,  and  he  has  worked 
out  just  such  a  problem  in  The  Lake. 

No  matter  what  may  be  thought  of  the  Irish 
novelist's  attitude  toward  Catholicism,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  in  at  least  one  trait  of  Father 
Gogarty  he  has  sounded  a  true  note.  Rather 
than  create  an  open  scandal  in  his  parish,  the 
priest  drops  out  of  sight,  letting  his  death  be 
inferred.  No  absurd  pulpit  harangues,  no  defi 
ance  of  Pope  or  bishop,  no  silly  chatter  about 
" higher  criticism"  and  recent  archaeological 
discoveries  whereby  Christianity  is  proved  a 
myth,  the  dream  of  some  Asiatic  heresiarch;  in 
a  word,  no  " holding  the  fort"  with  the  co 
operation  of  a  sympathetic  and  misguided  con 
gregation  and  front-page  interviews  in  the  daily 
newspapers.  Moore  knew  his  subject  too  thor 
oughly  to  commit  such  an  error.  His  priest  was 
the  over-ripe  pear  which  fell  on  the  thither  side 
of  the  walled-in  orchard  of  the  faith.  This  fidel 
ity  to  life  should  make  his  readers  forgive  many 
slippery  and  dangerous  spots  in  the  book. 

What  is  it  all  about?  your  friends  ask  you. 
Nothing  much  happens.  A  priest  writes  letters 
to  a  woman  he  hardly  knows,  falls  in  love,  grad 
ually  loses  zeal  for  his  sacred  office,  and  then 
disappears.  No  thrilling  adventures;  no  senti 
mental  dialogues;  no  fun;  no  carnal  conflagra 
tions.  Yet  slowly,  patiently,  is  evoked  for  the 
reader  the  portrait  of  a  real  man,  a  genuine 
woman.  You  may  not  care  for  the  calling  of  the 
one  or  the  temperament  of  the  other.  You  may 
21 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

ask,  as  do  most  of  us  American  grown-up  chil 
dren,  why  something  does  not  happen.  But 
when  you  have  finished  you  have  peeped  into 
the  souls  of  a  man  and  a  woman  and  witnessed 
their  struggles.  What  occurs  to  us  in  the  street 
is  not  of  the  same  importance  as  the  ideas  that 
float  at  the  base  of  our  consciousness.  And  to 
tell  a  simple  story  of  simple  lives  is  thrice  as 
difficult  a  task  as  to  relate  in  huge  and  resounding 
prose  the  astonishing  happenings  in  the  careers 
of  kings  and  queens,  dukes  and  titled  dullards. 

Briefly,  this  is  the  slender  anecdote  from  which 
has  sprung  Mr.  Moore's  story.  Oliver  Gogarty 
was  born  in  a  little  village  somewhere  on  the 
west  coast  of  Ireland.  He  had  two  sisters. 
The  family  was  poor,  but  it  had  always  boasted 
a  priest.  The  boy  was  of  a  mystic  mind.  He 
fed  upon  old  chronicles,  misty  legends.  He 
loved  the  lake,  the  woods,  the  clouds,  the  moun 
tains.  Particularly  did  the  early  centuries  before 
the  advent  of  the  hated  Sassenach  make  a  potent 
appeal.  He  wished  that  he  had  been  born  in 
those  times  when  a  hermit  could  spend  his  days 
praising  God  and  loving  the  tender  flowers  and 
the  little  creatures  of  the  air.  A  ruined  her 
mitage  on  a  deserted  lake  island  touched  his 
imagination.  Slowly  his  sister  Eliza  instilled 
into  his  thoughts  the  idea  of  priesthood.  She  was 
determined  to  be  a  nun  and,  as  he  did  not  relish 
the  notion  of  marrying  Annie  McGrath  and  be 
coming  a  manufacturer,  he  ended  by  being  or 
dained.  His  parish  consisted  of  simple  peasant 
22 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

souls.  He  had  one  assistant,  Father  Moran,  a 
priest  who  battled  against  the  liquor  madness. 
One  day  Father  Gogarty  heard  whispers  of  a 
scandal  about  Rose  Leicester,  a  young,  good-look 
ing  woman  who  played  the  organ  in  his  church. 
She  was  a  girl  of  unusual  mental  attainments 
and  the  priest  occasionally  rehearsed  with  her. 

His  indignation,  then,  may  be  imagined  when 
the  evil  story  was  brought  to  him  by  a  gossip 
ing  female  parishioner.  Rose  had  a  lover. 
Worse  still,  she  could  not  remain  long  in  the  par 
ish  without  palpable  exposure.  Burning  with 
rage  at  the  sinner,  forgetful  of  all  mercy,  the 
priest  preached  a  wrathful  sermon  one  Sunday 
morning,  levelling  lances  at  the  unfortunate  girl, 
though  not  openly  mentioning  her  name.  But 
it  sufficed.-  Next  day  Rose  Leicester  disap 
peared,  and  for  months  the  rumour  persisted  that 
she  had  sought  the  lake  to  drown  therein  her 
shame.  Father  Gogarty  allowed  this  idea  to 
become  a  fixed  one  within  the  walls  of  his  brain. 
Day  and  night  the  image  of  a  desperate  soul 
drowning  herself  ravaged  his  conscience.  He 
was  of  a  poetic  nature.  His  imagination  played 
him  queer  pranks,  and  his  life  soon  became  a 
torture.  Great  was  the  relief  some  time  after 
ward  to  hear  from  an  Irish  priest  in  London  that 
Rose  had  quietly  gone  away,  with  her  child,  and 
was  supporting  both  by  her  work  in  London. 

Grateful  because  of  the  load  lifted  from  his 
conscience,  Gogarty  wrote  a  letter  of  apology  to 
Rose.  It,  was  answered.  And  then  began  a  long 

23 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

correspondence,  in  which  we  see  the  growth  of 
familiar  affection,  artistically  manipulated  by 
the  author;  the  social  advancement  of  Rose,  her 
intellectual  development,  and  her  artful  com 
munication  of  these  facts  to  the  curious  and  in 
terested  priest.  He  is  fearful  for  her  soul's  sal 
vation.  He  is  also  jealous  because  of  her  sur 
roundings,  because  of  the  man  —  a  free-thinker 
—  who  is  giving  her  so  many  opportunities  for 
culture  and  travel;  because  —  and  this  motive 
appears  at  the  close  of  the  book  —  the  priest  falls 
hopelessly  in  love  with  the  fair  letter-writer. 
Not  once  do  we  meet  her  in  the  story.  She  re 
veals  herself  only  in  her  letters.  She  writes  from 
Holland,  from  Belgium,  from  Germany,  from 
Italy.  She  talks  of  Wagner's  music  and  Rem 
brandt  and  Hals,  of  the  River  Rhine,  of  wine,  of 
women,  of  song.  Over  in  Ireland,  where  the 
upright  rain  falls,  remorselessly,  from  week's 
end  to  week's  end,  the  priest,  his  soul  aflame  for 
beautiful  paintings,  music,  marbles,  cathedrals, 
and  palaces,  hungrily  reads  of  these  lovely  and 
desirable  things,  reads  of  skies  as  blue,  as  hard 
as  turquoise.  He  has  an  old  woman  in  his  cot 
tage  who  looks  after  his  humble  wants.  Occa 
sionally  Father  Moran  visits  him  —  once  to  beg 
for  whiskey,  for  he  is  overtaken  by  the  thirst 
craze  at  intervals.  There  are  the  usual  kind- 
hearted  peasants,  but  set  before  us  by  a  master 
hand.  And  there  is  the  lake  —  the  symbol  of 
the  play. 
Bereft  even  of  the  letters,  for  the  woman  re- 

24 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

venges  herself  when  she  has  led  the  priest  to  an 
avowal  by  dropping  the  correspondence,  Father 
Gogarty  plans  an  escape.  His  soul  is  empty. 
God  has  withdrawn  from  him.  Worse,  far  worse 
than  the  thirst  for  strong  drink  which  devours 
his  fellow-priest  is  the  thirst  that  makes  his  pres 
ent  life  dry  and  stale.  He  resolves  to  escape. 
But  how?  He  has  a  sister,  now  an  abbess.  He 
will  not  make  her  life  wretched.  He  will  not  pre 
cipitate  a  scandal  in  his  flock,  perhaps  send  some 
weak  souls  to  perdition.  So  he  leaves  his  old 
clothes  on  the  banks  of  the  lake,  swims  it,  and 
with  another  garb  makes  his  way  to  Cork  and 
to  America,  where  he  purposes  to  become  a  jour 
nalist. 

Unhappy  man,  and  in  New  York!  Far  better 
the  dreary  parish  by  the  lakeside. 

"There  is,"  he  reflects  on  the  deck  of  the 
steamer,  "a  lake  in  every  man's  heart.  And 
every  man  must  ungird  his  loins  for  the  cross 
ing."  Thus  the  book  ends,  symbol- wise. 

The  Moore  people  are  neither  fantastic  nor 
anarchs;  they  are,  whether  vulgar  or  visionary, 
fashioned  from  the  common  clay  of  humanity. 
Their  author  may  now  say  with  his  own  hero: 
"Surely  the  possession  of  one's  soul  is  a  great 
reality."  For  those  with  Irish  blood  in  their 
veins  this  book  is  full  of  that  magic  we  call  Celtic. 
It  is  enchanting,  wistful,  melancholy,  and  poetic, 
and  across  its  pages  sound  the  sad  undertones 
of  a  worsted  race.  It  fills  one  with  a  veritable 
home-sickness. 

25 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

III 
MEMOIRS  OF  MY  DEAD  LIFE 

An  astoundingly  frank  book  is  Moore's  Mem 
oirs  of  My  Dead  Life;  frank  and  brutal  and 
fascinating.  The  title  is  not  altogether  happy, 
lacking  the  straightforward  ring  of  his  early  Con 
fessions  of  a  Young  Man  and  the  excellent  sim 
plicity  of  that  occasional  series  of  literary  papers 
he  has  chosen  to  call  Avowals.  But  if  we  cavil 
at  the  name  of  the  new  book  there  is  no  mistak 
ing  its  quality.  Memoirs  these  pages  are,  a 
veritable  baring  of  the  writer's  bosom.  In  his 
Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  there  are  few  epi 
sodes  of  such  intimate  human  revelation.  George 
Moore  was  too  youthful  then  for  profound  ex 
periences  ;  instead  he  told  us  what  he  thought  of 
some  modern  books  and  pictures  and  people. 
In  1877  ne  nad  achieved  no  foregrounds  and,  as 
Nietzsche  might  have  said,  there  is  pathos  in 
perspective  whether  linear  or  emotional. 

Not  so  are  the  contents  of  these  later  Memoirs. 
There  is  talk  about  art  and  literature;  but  the 
bulk  of  the  volume  is  given  over  to  the  narration 
of  various  events  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Moore,  events 
as  a  rule  published  after  a  man  has  joined  his 
forefathers  across  the  rim  of  the  unconscious  - 
that  is,  if  some  indignant  and  conscientious  rela 
tive  does  not  burn  the  manuscript.  This  must 
not  be  construed  that  George  Moore  is  a  second 
Casanova  with  his  indiscreet  outpourings;  nor 
26 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

is  he  as  coarse  as  a  comedy  of  the  Restoration. 
Yet,  no  book  has  appeared  in  England  since 
Sterne  that  so  plainly  deals  with  matters  usually 
left  unwritten,  if  not  unsaid.  It  is  one  of  the 
glories  of  this  Irish  author  that  he  is  always 
leagues  away  from  hypocrisy.  He  never  calls 
a  leg  a  limb.  He  is  not  afraid  to  remind  us  that 
the  facts  of  sex,  of  birth,  of  death,  are  gross. 
Nor  is  he  mealy-mouthed  and  mincing.  Pruri 
ent  he  is  not,  though  very  often  coarse,  with  a 
tang  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

It  was  all  very  shocking  to  our  American 
fiction-fed  public,  this  outspoken  declaration  of 
a  man  who  is  not  afraid  to  declare  that  the  love 
passion  is  a  blessing,  good  wine  a  boon,  art  alone 
enduring.  We  heard  the  moral  cackling  of  the 
hen-minded  —  forever  be  praised  for  that  phrase, 
Mr.  Howells!  —  and  the  wincing  of  that  "re 
fined"  New  England  school  in  whose  veins 
slowly  courses  ink  and  ice-water.  To  be  brief, 
in  the  English  edition  and  unexpurgated  form, 
Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  is  a  shocking  book, 
and  its  present  reviewer  delights  in  the  state 
ment. 

Consummate  art  is  displayed  in  the  handling 
of  the  narrative,  a  mingling  of  artificial  simplic 
ity  and  the  most  subtle  interbalancing  of  phrase 
and  idea.  Some  one  complained  recently  that 
in  the  review  of  cue-rent  English  and  American 
fiction  little  or  nothing  is  said  of  the  style  or 
scholarship  displayed  by  authors.  The  reason 
is  quite  simple.  The  majority  of  such  books  are 
27 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

badly  written.  As  for  style,  it  may  go  hang.  It 
is  considered  insincere  to  polish  one's  periods. 
The  quality  that  makes  Edith  Wharton's  short 
stories  loom  above  many  of  her  contemporaries 
is  a  despised  quality  for  those  manly  practition 
ers  of  the  art  to  whom  cow-boys  and  motor-car 
collisions,  embalmed  politicians  and  youthful  fe 
male  idiots  who  play  tennis  and  speak  English 
through  their  nasal  ducts,  are  the  choicest  pabu 
lum  of  fiction.  Therefore  to  write  moving  Eng 
lish  about  the  human  soul  has  been  pronounced 
morbid  by  prominent  critics. 

With  Mr.  Moore's  book  little  fault  may  be 
found  on  the  score  of  individual  style  and  charm. 
He  is  always  charming  even  in  those  days  of  the 
Nouvelle  Athenes,  when  he  was  so  superciliously 
chilly,  so  arrogant  in  his  assumption  of  aesthetic 
superiority.  It  may  then  be  said  that  the  Mem 
oirs  is  written  in  distinguished  English,  often  in 
the  key  of  confidential  babblings,  often  rising  in 
pitch  to  the  loftier  tones  of  passion  and  melan 
choly.  There  is  passion,  the  Celtic  passion  which 
exhales  from  the  memories  of  a  man  who  has 
loved  many  women,  yet  who  is  not  cursed  with 
the  sentimental  temperament.  It  is  a  burden  for 
readers  of  discrimination  when  the  sentimental 
stop  is  pulled  out  in  the  organ  piece  of  confession. 
George  Moore  is  still  pagan  enough  not  to  regret 
having  lived  his  life  —  as  the  odious  phrase  goes; 
rather  does  he  seem  to  regret  missed  opportuni 
ties  —  something  that  men  dare  not  often  avow 
though  they  may  believe  it.  It  is  still  the  same 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

George  Moore,  artist,  poet,  egoist,  lover;  some 
what  softened  to  be  sure  —  has  he  not  fought 
the  fights  of  Verlaine,  Manet,  Monet,  Degas  — 
and  George  Moore!  But  across  that  rather 
cruel,  if  always  poetic,  temperament  —  one  may 
not  be  morally  tumefied,  yet  remain  a  poet  — 
there  has  descended  a  rich  mist  that  blurs  egotis 
tical  angles,  that  robs  of  their  harshness  several 
episodes  which,  otherwise,  would  wear  the  air  of 
vain  boastings.  Nor  has  Mr.  Moore's  uncon 
scious  humour  deserted  him.  He  writes  mag 
nificently  humorous  passages  without  a  spark  of 
consciousness  as  to  their  destination.  If,  like 
Theophile  Gautier's,  his  periods  fall,  as  do  cats, 
on  their  feet,  so  do  his  meanings.  But  he  skirts 
many  narrow  corners.  Precipices  yawn  at  the 
bottom  of  certain  pages.  And  we  often  wipe  our 
brow  in  relief  as  we  are  helped  over  some  spiny 
fence  of  dialogue  or  some  terrifying  admission. 
He  even  peeps  and  botanises  on  his  mother's 
grave.  And  by  the  way,  he  got  his  title  in  a 
novel  by  Goncourt,  Charles  Demailly  by  name. 


IV 

THE  RECRUDESCENCE  OF  EVELYN 

Mr.  Moore  once  asked  regarding  a  certain 
writer,  What  was  he  the  author  of?  When  we 
say  Shakespeare,  Balzac,  Goethe,  Wagner,  we  do 
not  think  of  the  titles  of  their  works.  But  Flau 
bert  we  know  as  the  author  of  Madame  Bo  vary, 
29 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

Bizet  as  the  composer  of  Carmen,  or  Moreau 
as  the  artist  who  gave  the  world  a  marvellous 
Salome.  Of  what  is  George  Moore  the  author? 
Several  critics  whose  opinions  have  the  ring  of 
finality  believe  that  in  painting  the  portrait  of 
the  mean-souled  Mildred  Lawson  he  created 
a  new  figure  in  fiction.  What  then  of  Esther 
Waters?  It  may  be  suggested  that  after  all 
Esther  is  the  type,  a  poor,  colourless  type  at  that, 
of  thousands  of  unhappy  English  servant-girls. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  a  feat  to  set  her  before  us  so 
vividly,  in  a  manner  that  at  moments  recalls  both 
Dickens  and  Zola.  Moore  spent  his  formative 
years  in  Paris  and  could  not  escape  the  turbid 
surf  of  the  new  naturalism.  He  shows  its  colour 
and  mass  in  that  real  story,  A  Mummer's  Wife, 
which  contains  descriptions  of  the  pottery  coun 
try  that  Thomas  Hardy  might  have  signed,  and 
for  a  heroine  —  if  Kate  Ede  can  be  allotted  such 
a  high-sounding  title  —  a  woman  who  has  a  little 
of  Emma  B ovary  and  something  of  Zola's  Ger- 
vaise  in  her  make-up;  the  pretty  vanity  of  the 
one  and  the  terrible  thirst  of  the  other.  A  hu 
man  tale,  and  in  spirit  not  French  at  all.  Dick 
Lenox, "  sensual  as  a  mutton-chop,"  is  a  character 
absolutely  vital  and  familiar.  We  have  learned 
to  hate  the  phrase  "a  human  document,"  so 
uncritically  abused  has  it  been,  yet  it  suits  A 
Mummer's  Wife. 

It  is  said  by  those  who  know  him  that  Moore 
is  far  from  pleased  when  any  one  talks  of  his 
early  novels.  Mike  Fletcher  he  considers  a 

.30 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

youthful  error,  though  plenty  of  his  admirers  see 
it  as  a  big,  bold,  gross,  and  unequal  book.  Mike 
is  also  a  living  person,  not  a  pale  adumbration 
of  polite  fiction.  That  he  was  both  a  blackguard 
and  poet  need  not  concern  us.  The  amalgam  is 
not  infrequently  encountered.  As  for  Mildred 
Lawson,  she  is  the  most  selfish  girl  we  ever  en 
countered  between  book  covers;  not  wicked,  but 
temperamentally  chilly,  and  egotist  to  the  bone. 
Even  Balzac,  Turgenief,  and  Tolstoy  did  not  an 
ticipate  her.  She  is  as  modern  as  to-morrow,  as 
modern  as  Hedda  Gabler.  What  then  shall  we 
say  is  George  Moore  to  be  considered  the  author 
of?  If  we  follow  his  lead  it  will  be  an  easy  an 
swer:  Evelyn  Innes  and  Sister  Teresa  (they  arex 
both  one  story  and  have  been  revised  and  re 
written  several  times).  Evidently  the  work  is 
its  author's  favourite,  and  his  devotion  in  thus 
remoulding  what  he  considered  his  early  faulty 
efforts,  while  not  without  a  precedent,  must  have 
been  a  labour  of  love.  And  what  a  labour. 

The  preface  to  the  first  edition  of  Sister 
Teresa  (1901)  tells  of  the  publisher's  dismay  when 
in  1898  he  was  shown  three  hundred  thousand 
words,  being  the  adventures  of  the  Wagner  singer 
Evelyn  Innes.  She  had  made  her  bow  to  the 
English  reading  world  that  year  and  was  well 
received.  But  a  novel  of  three  hundred  thousand 
words  was  an  impossibility  in  our  hurried  days. 
The  story  was  chopped  in  the  middle,  and  we 
left  Evelyn  riding  home  to  London  from  the 
nuns  of  the  Wimbledon  convent.  Her  mind  was 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

made  up  —  she  would  become  a  nun.  Three 
years  later  appeared  Sister  Teresa.  As  Evelyn 
Innes  was  overburdened  with  musical  analysis, 
the  sequel  —  rather,  the  last  half  —  was  sat 
urated  with  a  conventual  atmosphere.  We  all 
wondered  how  Moore  could  have  caught  the 
note  so  accurately,  despite  several  shocking  in 
cidents,  only  fit  for  the  literature  that  delights 
in  decrying  the  purity  of  a  nun's  life.  The 
streak  of  sensuality  in  the  Irish  writer  may  be 
recognised  in  all  of  his  novels. 

Those  who  are  faithful  Moorians  thought  that 
they  had  read  the  end  of  Evelyn,  of  Sir  Owen 
Asher,  of  Ulick  Dean.  It  was  not  to  be.  The 
artistic  conscience  of  Moore  began  to  ring  him 
up  at  Bayreuth,  at  Versailles,  at  Dublin,  and 
London.  A  third  edition  of  Evelyn  Innes  came 
out  in  1901,  a  sixpenny  edition,  but  its  perusal 
soon  proved  that  it  contained  many  new  episodes, 
though  ninety  pages  shorter  than  the  original. 
The  mystifying  love-making  between  Evelyn 
and  Ulick  in  her  dressing-room  at  Covent  Gar 
den  during  the  third  act  of  Tristan  is  missing. 
Possibly  it  was  suggested  to  Moore  that  Isolde's 
great  aria  would  have  been  indeed  a  Liebestod  if 
she  had  attempted  to  sing  on  that  occasion. 
And  Ulick  Dean,  more  Rosicrucian  than  ever, 
tells  of  Grania,  and  Diarmid,  Bran,  and  Cuchu- 
lain  in  Ireland,  at  Chapelizod,  the  spot  where 
Isolde  walked  and  talked  in  actual  life  with 
Tristan.  However,  this  edition  kept  fairly  close 
to  the  original  scheme. 

32 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

Again  Moore  was  haunted  by  the  simulacrum 
of  Evelyn.  Reproachfully  she  asked  him  if  he 
had  really  spilled  her  soul.  For  seven  years  he 
laboured  at  a  complete  recasting  of  her  story. 
In  1908  a  new  Evelyn  greeted  us,  shorn  of  much 
of  her  waywardness,  a  less  cold  but  not  a  more 
charming  woman.  Too  many  overpaintings  had 
effaced  some  original  features.  We  hope  she  is 
the  last  incarnation,  for  though  she  is  not  such 
a  theologian  in  petticoats  as  in  her  former  guises, 
she  is  not  as  a  character  large  and  generous 
enough  to  stand  another  reorchestration.  In  a 
word,  revising  does  not  always  mean  re-vision. 
Mr.  Moore  quotes  Shakespeare,  Balzac,  Goethe, 
Wagner,  Fitzgerald,  George  Meredith,  and  W.  B. 
Yeats  as  precedents  in  this  matter  of  rewriting  an 
early  book.  But  it  is  hard  on  the  average  reader ; 
besides,  there  are  some  who  prefer  the  confused 
composition  and  multifarious  details  of  the  early 
Evelyn  to  the  clearer-cut  profile  and  swif  ter-told 
tale  of  the  later  version.  Why  not  rake  up  the 
history  of  Beethoven's  four  overtures  to  his  opera 
Fidelio?  the  Fidelio  overture  and  the  three  Leo 
nora  overtures?  Mr.  Moore  is  still  one  behind 
in  the  running  with  the  German  composer. 

We  are  inclined  to  grumble  at  the  attenuated 
new  version  of  Evelyn's  first  meeting  after  her 
elopement  with  her  father.  It  was  a  thrilling 
bit  of  art  in  the  1898  edition,  and  the  psychol 
ogy  of  the  singing  actress  was  masterfully  ex 
posed  as  she  sank  to  her  knees  asking  her  simple- 
minded  parent  for  forgiveness.  Like  Magda's 

33 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

homecoming  in  Sudermann's  play,  the  comedian 
came  to  the  surface.  Evelyn  could  not  forbear 
humming  "War  es  so  schmahlich?"  the  phrase 
Wagner  puts  in  Brunhilde's  mouth  as  she  bends 
before  Wotan.  In  the  first  version  Evelyn's 
father,  who  knows  Palestrina  better  than  Wag 
ner,  does  not  note  the  mixture  of  acting  and 
genuine  emotion.  In  the  new  edition  he  is  more 
sophisticated  and  begs  her  to  stop  her  foolery  — 
which  may  be  natural,  but  not  as  effective  as 
when  he  had  the  innocence  of  the  ear.  And 
those  who  remember  Ulick  Dean  as  an  Irish 
mystic  and  music  critic  may  be  displeased  to 
find  another  young  man  who  fiddles  a  little  and 
is  yet  a  "smart"  business  man.  Vanished  the 
perfumed  atmosphere  of  mysticism  and  poetry 
and  the  long  rumbling,  delightful  conversations 
about  music,  art,  and  literature.  The  original 
Ulick  was  possibly  a  too-well-known  portrait  of 
Yeats,  hence  the  suppressions. 

But  if  the  new  Evelyn  Innes  may  not  please, 
there  is  little  doubt  that  Sister  Teresa  will  not 
fail  to  win  admiration.  It  is  a  better-planned 
book  and  more  logical  than  the  first  edition,  be 
cause  Teresa  after  four  years  at  the  convent 
leaves  it  knowing  that  she  has  not  a  true  voca 
tion.  She  pays  the  debts  of  the  convent,  and 
into  the  world  she  returns.  She  devotes  herself 
to  charity  and  singing-lessons.  The  original 
Teresa  was  pictured  as  a  nun  who  had  lost  her 
voice  and  was  quite  resigned  to  her  life,  but  this 
psychology  was  weak,  at  no  time  did  Evelyn 

34 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

Innes  suggest  the  possession  of  a  religious  na 
ture.  She  had  a  vein  of  cold  sensuality  that  was 
incompatible  with  a  genuine  conversion.  She 
always  thought  of  men.  Too  long  before  the 
foot-lights  she  had  been  to  change  in  a  few  years. 
Sir  Owen,  who  is  the  most  static  character  in  the 
novel,  knew  this,  and  thus  the  fictive  Evelyn 
has  asserted  her  fictive  rights  and  worried  her 
creator  into  changing  her  destiny.  Sister  Teresa 
now  abounds  in  brilliant  descriptions  of  desert 
life;  Sir  Owen  goes  to  the  Sahara  to  see  Arabian 
falconry.  The  painter  that  is  in  George  Moore 
exercises  his  art  in  the  most  delectable  style.  At 
the  final  meeting  recorded  of  Evelyn  and  Owen, 
they  recognise  that  they  are  too  mature  for  ro 
mance;  they  become  good  friends.  The  book 
ends  in  a  suspended  cadence,  one  that  leaves 
something  for  the  imagination.  You  are  con 
scious  that  the  last  page  overflows  into  real  life 
and  does  not  end  abruptly  with  the  covers. 
Evelyn  Innes  was  formerly  a  novel  of  musical 
and  religious  life;  it  is  now  a  connected  love 
story,  one  that  Mr.  Moore  does  not  hesitate  to 
proclaim  as  "the  first  written  in  English  for 
three  hundred  years."  Mr.  Moore  has  never 
valued  modesty  as  one  of  the  fine  arts,  and  he 
gives  chapter  and  verse  for  his  assertion.  They 
may  not  convince  readers  of  Richard  Feverel, 
but  what  cares  George  Moore  —  the  survivor  of 
the  Three  Georges  in  English  fiction  (the  other 
two  being  Meredith  and  Gissing),  the  "last  of 
the  Realists  and  the  first  of  the  Symbolists." 

35 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

V 
MORE  MEMORIES 

The  memory  of  George  Moore  borders  on  the 
abnormal.  Sights,  sounds,  and  scents  of  child 
hood  are  recalled  after  the  lapse  of  years  by  the 
majority  of  persons,  but  not  so  easily  the  events 
of  one's  middle  years.  Mr.  Moore  confesses  to 
having  been  born  in  1857;  he  is  therefore  over 
the  ridge-pole  of  life.  His  new  book,  the  first  of 
the  trilogy  Hail  and  Farewell,  which  is  entitled 
Ave,  is  a  still  sharper  test  of  his  retentive 
memory  than  the  Memoirs  of  his  dead  life  or  the 
Confessions  of  his  youth,  for  it  deals  with  occur 
rences  in  his  life  that  happened  not  more  than 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago.  Only  on  the  sup 
position  that  the  author  kept  a  diary  can  we 
understand  his  mental  drag-net,  and  Mr.  Moore 
does  not,  we  have  been  told,  indulge  in  the  habit. 
That  the  book  has  shocked  his  Irish  contempo 
raries  we  can  readily  realise,  but  it  was  inevita 
ble;  like  Dante  he  has  placed  friend  and  foe  alike 
in  his  pleasant  inferno,  and  doubtless  has  told 
many  truths.  Our  chief  amazement  is  caused 
by  the  army  of  details,  the  thousands  of  facts 
which  are  the  bone  and  sinew  of  Ave. 

The  book  is  not  precisely  an  autobiography, 
for  there  is  a  fictional  air  about  the  performance 
which  testifies  to  the  most  exquisite  art;  never 
theless  the  story  deals  with  the  careers  of  George 
Moore  and  of  his  friends,  Edward  Martyn,  author 

36 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

of  The  Heather  Field  and  other  plays;  the  poet 
W.  B.  Yeats;  Lady  Gregory,  indeed  the  entire 
Abbey  Theatre  group.  It  begins  with  Moore's 
introduction  to  the  new  movement  in  Dublin  to 
restore  the  study  of  Erse,  and  ends  with  his  de 
parture  from  London  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
Boer  war.  He  was  a  Little  Englander,  and  it 
may  be  remembered  that  he  issued  a  manifesto 
in  which  he  gave  his  reason  for  abandoning  Eng 
land  to  her  fate,  a  proclamation  that  moved  Max 
Beerbohm  to  a  mocking  discourse. 

On  the  first  page  we  find  Mr.  Moore  living  in 
a  garret  —  the  year  1894,  his  poverty  temporary 
—  in  King's  Bench  Walk,  and  Edward  Martyn 
in  another  at  Pump  Court.  From  him  he  learned 
of  the  new  literature  in  Irish  and  was  duly  in 
credulous.  "I  began  to  think  of  the  soul  which 
Edward  Martyn  had  told  me  I  lost  in  Paris  and 
in  London;  and  if  it  were  true  that  whoever 
cast  off  tradition  is  like  a  tree  planted  in  uncon 
genial  soil.  Turgenief  was  of  that  opinion: 
'Russia  can  do  without  any  of  us,  but  none  of 
us  can  do  without  Russia/  True,  perhaps,  of 
Russia,  but  not  true  of  Ireland.  Far  more  true 
would  it  be  to  say  that  an  Irishman  must  fly 
from  Ireland  if  he  would  be  himself.  English 
men,  Scotchmen,  Jews,  do  well  in  Ireland  — 
Irishmen  never;  even  the  patriot  must  leave  Ire 
land  to  get  a  hearing."  And  later  he  declares  with 
true  Moravian  logic  that "  a  Protestant  can  never 
know  Ireland  intimately."  This,  coming  from 
this  Celtic  St.  George,  stirred  Ulster  to  its  centre. 

37 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

The  interest  and  value  of  the  book  do  not  con 
sist  in  its  fable,  but  in  its  art.  Mr.  Moore  goes 
to  Dublin,  raises  ructions,  falls  out  with  his 
friends,  falls  in  again;  goes  to  Bayreuth,  makes 
remarks  about  the  absence  of  decent  plumbing, 
returns  to  London,  and  again  raises  a  row.  He 
is  a  living  embodiment,  or  rather  the  literary 
equivalent,  of  "  tread  on  the  tail  of  me  coat." 
But  if  any  one  repeats  the  hoary  falsehood 
that  George  Moore  lacks  the  sense  of  humour 
his  Ave  will  be  the  best  answer.  It  is  full 
of  implicit  humour,  naive,  subtle,  never  ex 
uberant. 

He  met  Cosima  Wagner  at  Bayreuth  in  1897. 
"  Liszt  lives  again  in  her,  the  same  inveigling 
manner;  she  casts  her  spells  like  her  father. 
But  how  is  all  this  to  end?  Am  I  going  to  run 
away  with  her?"  We  submit  that  as  a  truly 
humorous  outbreak.  And  his  portrait  of  Sieg 
fried  Wagner:  "The  son  is  the  father  in  every 
thing  except  his  genius;  the  same  large  head, 
the  same  brow,  the  same  chin  and  jaw.  'A  sort 
of  deserted  shrine/  I  cried  to  myself,  and  gasped 
for  words."  The  late  Anton  Seidl  is  as  happily 
described.  He  conducted  Parsifal  in  Bayreuth 
that  year.  The  search  for  chambers  in  the  stuffy 
little  town  is  the  real  Moore.  There  is  much 
criticism  of  Wagner  and  Wagner  singers  scat 
tered  through  this  section  of  the  book,  some  of 
which  may  make  the  reader  stare. 

The  Dublin  experiences  ought  to  prove  fas 
cinating  to  the  leaders  of  the  Celtic  renaissance. 

38 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

Lady  Gregory  is  sketched  at  full  length  and  with 
surprising  amiability  considering  the  tart  tongue 
of  the  writer,  who  did  not  spare  his  mother  in 
his  earlier  memoirs.  Speaking  of  her  literary  in 
terest  in  Yeats  he  says:  "As  the  moon  is  more 
interested  in  the  earth  than  in  any  other  thing, 
there  is  always  some  woman  more  interested  in  a 
man's  mind  than  in  anything  else,  and  is  willing 
to  follow  it  sentence  by  sentence.  A  great  deal 
of  Yeats's  work  must  come  to  her  in  fragments 
—  a  line  and  a  half,  two  lines  —  and  these  she 
faithfully  copies  on  her  type-writer,  and  even 
those  that  his  ultimate  taste  has  rejected  are 
treasured  up  and  perhaps  one  day  will  appear 
in  a  stately  variorum  edition."  Mr.  Moore  de 
scribes  her  as  he  first  saw  her  some  twenty-five 
years  ago:  "She  was  then  a  young  woman,  very 
earnest,  who  divided  her  hair  in  the  middle  and 
wore  it  smooth  on  either  side  of  a  broad  and 
handsome  brow.  ...  In  her  drawing-room  were 
to  be  met  men  of  assured  reputation  and  politics, 
and  there  was  always  the  best  reading  of  the  time 
upon  her  tables.  There  was  nothing,  however, 
in  her  conversation  to  suggest  literary  faculty. 
Some  years  after  she  edited  her  husband's  mem 
oirs,  and  did  the  work  well,  .  .  .  and  thinking 
how  happy  their  [Yeats's  and  Lady  Gregory's] 
life  must  be  at  Coole,  my  heart  went  out  to  her 
in  sudden  sympathy.  I  said  she  knew  him  to  be 
her  need  at  once,  and  she  never  hesitated  .  .  . 
yet  she  knew  me  before  she  knew  him."  Per 
haps  this  may  account  for  the  slightly  curdled 

39 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

milk  in  the  cocoa-nut.  Otherwise  Lady  Gregory 
is  a  charming  lady  and  the  very  pattern  of  a 
doting  grandmother. 

Again,  the  value  of  the  portraiture  in  Ave  de 
pends  less  on  its  fidelity  to  the  unconscious  and 
presumably  unwilling  sitters  and  more  upon  the 
wonderful  art  displayed.  Occasionally  the  firm, 
nervously  incisive  line  of  the  writer  flattens  and 
falters  into  caricature,  but  not  often.  That 
dinner  at  which  Moore  met  certain  Dublin  ce 
lebrities  is  one  of  the  best  chapters  in  his  mem 
oirs.  There  were  Gill  with  his  beard,  Tom  the 
Trimmer,  and  Rolleston,  with  too  little  back  to 
his  head;  John  O'Leary,  the  ancient  beard; 
Standish  O'Grady,  whose  talent  reminded  one  of 
the  shaft  of  a  beautiful  column  rising  from  amid 
rubble  heaps.  "O'Grady  tells  me  that  he  found 
Rolleston  a  West  Briton,  but  after  a  few  lessons 
in  Irish  history  Rolleston  donned  a  long  black 
cloak  and  a  slouch  hat  and  attended  meetings, 
speaking  in  favour  of  secret  societies,"  and  alto 
gether  scaring  O'Grady  by  his  impetuousness. 
Moore  murmured  to  himself:  "What  a  good 
tutor  he  would  make  if  I  had  children."  And 
the  professor!  What  a  joy  he  must  experience 
as  he  gazes  upon  his  portrait  as  here  limned  by 
Moore.  Is  it  Dowden  or  Mahaffy  ?  Impossible ! 
Certainly  a  literary  somebody.  He  abhors  their 
wine,  but  likes  Marsala.  His  appetite  is  fair. 
He  says  to  the  waiter:  "Nothing  much  to-day, 
John.  Just  a  dozen  of  oysters  and  a  few  cutlets 
and  a  quart  of  that  excellent  ale."  And  says  the 
40 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

professor:  "After  that  I  had  nothing  at  all  until 
something  brought  me  to  the  cupboard,  and 
there,  behold!  I  found  a  bottle  of  lager.  I  said 
'  Smith  has  been  remiss.  He  has  mixed  the  Bass 
and  the  lager/  But  no.  They  were  all  full, 
twelve  bottles  of  Bass  and  only  one  of  lager. 
So  I  took  it,  as  it  seemed  a  stray  and  lonely 
thing."  George  Moore  not  charitable  not  hu 
morous?  Eh? 

Yeats,  who  sat  with  "his  head  drooping  on 
his  shirt-front  like  a  crane,"  was  there,  and  there 
was  a  letter  read  from  W.  E.  H.  Lecky.  Horace 
Plunket  was  alluded  to;  but  when  Moore  was 
called  on  for  a  speech  he  answered:  "No,  no! 
I  will  not.  My  one  claim  to  originality  among 
Irishmen  is  that  I  never  made  a  speech."  Then 
Hyde  was  called  upon,  Douglas  Hyde.  "A  shape 
strangely  opposite  to  Rolleston,  who  has  very 
little  back  to  his  head.  All  Hyde's  head  seemed 
at  the  back,  like  a  walrus,  and  the  drooping 
black  moustache  seemed  to  bear  out  the  like 
ness.  .  .  .  Without  doubt  an  aboriginal."  But 
he  grew  to  admire  Hyde.  Of  "A.  E.,"  the  poet- 
painter  (George  Russell),  Moore  said:  "Here  is 
the  mind  of  Corot  in  verse  and  prose."  John 
Eglington  reminded  him  of  both  Emerson  and 
Thoreau,  —  a  Thoreau  of  the  suburbs.  "The 
hard  north  is  better  than  the  soft,  peaty  Cath 
olic  stuff  which  comes  from  Connaught,"  adds 
the  author.  Moore  never  fails  to  strike  out 
sweet  sounds  for  his  one-time  co-religionists. 
His  name  in  Ireland  nowadays  is  responsible 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

for  much  mild  objurgation,  for  he  is  in  a  man 
ner  the  playboy  of  the  " far-down"  world. 

There  are  no  sentimental  episodes  in  Ave, 
but  too  many  long-drawn-out  discussions  about 
the  making  of  plays.  Edward  Martyn  seems  to 
Mr.  Moore  singularly  obstinate,  for  he  refuses 
to  alter  his  play  and  is  well  abused  for  his  stub 
bornness.  Mr.  Yeats  comes  in  for  his  share  of 
criticism.  There  are  so  many  felicitous  pages  of 
musical  English,  English  that  expands  before  the 
eye  into  sudden  little  sceneries :  Ireland  the  land 
of  beauty,  Ireland  misty  and  melancholy,  that 
we  forgive  the  gall  for  the  honey.  Like  most 
Irishmen  George  Moore  is  lyric  only  in  the  pres 
ence  of  nature;  for  his  fellow-countrymen  he 
reserves  his  irony. 

The  fact  is  that  Moore  is  an  aesthetic  fire 
brand.  He  is  always  applying  his  torch  to  some 
reverent  institution,  to  some  hay-mow  of  preju 
dice.  He  has  reviled  British  painting  and  novel- 
writing.  He  has  called  by  hard  names  persons 
in  popular  favour.  When  he  announced  that  he 
would  shake  the  dust  of  London  from  his  shoes 
there  were  thanksgivings  offered  up  in  some  Eng 
lish  newspapers. 

And  yet  a  milder-mannered  man  never  scut 
tled  the  ship  of  conventionality  than  this  same 
George  Moore.  I  last  saw  him  on  the  esplanade 
in  front  of  the  Wagner  Theatre  at  Bayreuth. 
We  talked  during  the  long  entr'actes  about  mu 
sic,  literature,  the  Erse  language,  and  America. 
Every  attempt  I  made  to  trip  him  into  a  dis- 

42 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

cussion  of  his  own  novels  met  with  a  gentle  but 
unmistakable  rebuff.  He  shivered  when  I  spoke 
of  his  earlier  stories  of  A  Modern  Lover,  Spring 
Days,  and  Mike  Fletcher,  that  very  remark 
able  trilogy  of  London  life  (and  to-day  they  are 
reprinted  in  a  new  edition).  But  he  said  many 
things  on  other  themes. 

"You  Americans  are  always  on  the  right  side 
in  a  struggling  cause.  You  freed  Cuba,  and  even 
if  you  do  gain  a  material  profit  the  end  justifies 
the  means.  You  did  right." 

"I  don't  believe  in  books,"  apropos  of  Flau 
bert.  "We  all  read  too  much.  It  is  better  to 
sit  on  a  fence  in  the  sunshine  and  look  at  things 
than  to  bury  one's  head  in  a  book.  If  you  read 
a  half-dozen  books  in  a  lifetime,  read  and  re-read 
them,  you  have  conquered  all  bookish  wisdom." 

Shakespeare's,  Balzac's,  Turgenief 's,  Tolstoy's, 
and  Flaubert's  names  were  mentioned  as  a  com 
prehensive  list.  "  No  one  can  hope  to  equal  such 
writing  as  Flaubert's.  Why  attempt  it?  We  are 
all  imitators."  Naturally,  as  Mr.  Moore  has 
read  all  the  books  and  written  a  lot,  he  has  his 
doubting  moods. 

"The  theatre  is  the  only  field  for  the  twentieth- 
century  artist.  By  placing  before  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  the  people  your  story  you  gain  an  im 
measurable  advantage  over  the  written  word. 
The  spoken  word  —  always.  Consider  the  power 
of  Wagner!  His  is  the  real  art  of  the  new  cen 
tury —  speech  reinforced  by  tone,  and  such 
tone!" 

43 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

After  hearing  Sir  Edward  Elgar's  Dream  of 
Gerontius  in  London  he  was  asked  his  opinion 
of  the  music.  "Holy  water  in  a  German  beer 
barrel,"  was  his  wicked  if  not  altogether  con 
vincing  reply. 

Mr.  Moore  read  in  a  newspaper  this  sentence: 
"We  often  speak  of  the  trouble  that  servants 
give  us,  but  do  we  ever  think  of  the  trouble  that 
we  give  servants?  "  This  was  illuminating.  "  Of 
course  we  give  servants  a  great  deal  of  trouble.'* 
And  then  he  began  to  consider  the  vicissitudes 
in  the  life,  say  of  a  cook-maid.  The  poor  wretch 
earns  from  fourteen  to  sixteen  pounds  a  year. 
She  may  get  into  trouble.  There  is  another  life 
to  be  looked  after.  How  can  she  support  herself 
and  a  child  on  such  a  meagre  sum?  All  the  hor 
rors  of  baby-farming  were  set  forth  in  Esther 
Waters  with  such  clearness  that  the  English 
nation  was  revolted.  George  Moore  came  in  for 
his  share  of  opprobrium,  but  he  stood  to  his 
thesis.  He  was  right,  and  the  public  realised 
that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

From  an  equally  slight  beginning  grew  the 
novel  of  Evelyn  Innes.  A  French  actress  weary 
of  her  life  went  into  a  convent  to  escape  the  men 
who  trailed  after  her.  She  found  the  nuns  too 
childish  —  which  was  natural  in  a  sophisticated 
creature  of  the  stage.  Evelyn  Innes  stays  and 
becomes  a  nun  in  earnest.  She  loses  her  voice, 
but  not  her  faith. 

To  show  you  how  popular  Mr.  Moore  must  be 
let  me  quote  a  few  of  his  ideas  on  various  sub- 

44 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

jects.  He  declared  that  "  morals  are  like  the 
veering  wind,  but  beauty  is  a  fixed  star."  "We 
should  beware  of  whatever  we  write  in  a  book, 
for  what  we  write  will  happen  to  us."  (Not 
a  consoling  thought  for  penmen.)  His  opinion 
of  women  in  art  has  endeared  him  to  the  sex 
wherever  English  is  spoken.  This  opinion  ac 
counts  possibly  for  the  expressions  of  velvety 
wrath  his  books  arouse  from  women  in  this  land 
of  "lady  novelists." 

"They  [women]  are  very  unlike  men.  .  .  . 
The  male  animal  seems  to  us  more  beautiful  than 
the  female  in  every  kind  but  our  own.  We  have 
doubted  the  beauty  of  women  very  little.  De 
Musset  said  that  most  of  woman's  beauty  ex 
isted  in  man's  love  for  her.  .  .  .  Our  concern  is 
with  the  mental  rather  than  the  physical  woman, 
but  mentality  is  dependent  on  physical  struc 
ture.  Woman  is  beautiful  in  detail  and  she  ex 
cels  in  detail,  but  she  never  attains  synthesis,  for 
she  herself  is  not  synthesis.  Every  generation 
pours  thousands  of  women  into  the  art  schools, 
and  after  a  few  years  they  marry  and  art  is  for 
gotten.  .  .  .  Women  like  art  until  the  more  seri 
ous  concerns  of  life  begin  for  them,  and  George 
Eliot,  who  had  no  children,  continued  to  stir  a 
sticky  porridge  all  her  life  long,  a  substance  com 
pounded  of  rationalism  and  morality  without 
God.  .  .  .  Women  have  succeeded  as  actresses 
and  courtesans  —  yes,  and  as  saints;  best  of  all 
as  saints;  they  have  worshipped  worthily  the 
gods  that  men  have  created." 

.45 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

He  pays  his  respects  to  Jane  Austen,  with  her 
"wool-work  style." 

He  agrees  with  Dvorak,  that  since  "the  Indian 
is  gone  America  must  look  to  the  negro,  for  only 
a  primitive  people  can  produce  language."  I 
wonder  if  the  Irish  writer  ever  heard  Dvorak's 
so-called  American  symphony,  which  sounds  so 
Slavic  and  is  so  full  of  quotations  from  Schubert 
and  Wagner.  Mr.  Moore  makes  sport  of  Eng 
lish  painting,  and  one  of  his  most  fantastic  ideas 
was  that  a  writer's  name  may  have  determined 
his  talent. 

"  Dickens  —  a  mean  name,  a  name  without 
atmosphere,  a  black  out-of-elbows,  backstairs 
name,  a  name  good  enough  for  loud  comedy  and 
louder  pathos.  John  Milton  —  a  splendid  name 
for  a  Puritan  poet.  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 
—  only  a  name  for  a  reed  through  which  every 
wind  blows  music."  Shelley  and  Byron's  poetry 
is  like  their  beautiful  names.  "Now,  it  is  a 
fact,"  he  continues,  "  that  we  find  no  fine  names 
among  novelists.  We  find  only  colourless  names, 
dry-as-dust  names,  or  vulgar  names,  round  names 
like  pot-hats,  those  names  like  mackintoshes, 
names  that  are  squashy  as  goloshes.  We  have 
charged  Scott  with  a  lack  of  personal  passion, 
but  could  personal  passion  dwell  in  such  a  jog 
trot  name  —  a  round-faced  name,  a  snub-nosed, 
spectacled,  pot-bellied  name,  a  placid,  benefi 
cent,  worthy  old  bachelor  name,  a  name  that 
evokes  all  conventional  ideas  and  formulas,  a 
Grub  Street  name,  a  nerveless  name,  an  arm- 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

chair  name,  an  old  oak  and  Abbotsford  name? 
And  Thackeray's  name  is  a  poor  one  —  the  syl 
lables  clatter  like  plates.  'We  shall  want  the 
carriage  at  half -past  two,  Thackeray.'  Dickens 
is  surely  a  name  for  a  page  boy.  George  Eliot's 
real  name,  Marian  Evans,  is  a  chaw-bacon, 
thick-loined  name." 

Moore  speaks  of  Tolstoy  as  "a  sort  of  Jules 
Verne  in  morals."  Kipling  is  a  cinematograph 
(his  soul  was  like  a  music  hall  to  Arthur  Symons). 
"Real,  solid  English  novels  are  composed  to  pre 
scription  —  so  much  curate,  so  much  Bible,  so 
much  religious  doubt,  so  much  settling  down, 
so  much  money.  We  hate  those  novels  as  we 
hate  an  English  lunch.  Indeed,  they  are  very 
like  an  English  lunch  —  the  father  and  the 
mother  at  the  ends  of  the  table,  the  children  and 
their  governess  at  the  sides,  and  the  governess 
telling  a  child  she  must  not  take  the  rhubarb 
pie  in  her  lap." 

A  man  whose  eye  was  educated  by  Corot  — 
didn't  Corot  paint  a  Lake  in  the  Louvre?  — 
whose  brain  has  fed  on  Turgenief  and  Flaubert, 
cannot  be  expected  to  admire  the  painted  anec 
dotes  of  modern  British  schools  or  the  clumsy, 
formless  novels  of  dear  old  England.  So  Mr. 
Moore  has  sown  a  goodly  crop  of  enemies  by  his 
outspoken  criticism.  If  he  doesn't  like  a  thing 
he  sounds  his  dislike  to  the  four  quarters  of 
heaven.  And  the  wind  thus  bred  of  his  fierce 
discourse  often  returns  in  the  guise  of  a  critical 
typhoon. 

47 


THE  LATER  GEORGE  MOORE 

He  has  been  misrepresented  —  nay  libelled  — 
by  his  pictures.  William  Orpen  has  painted  him 
as  he  looked  when  I  saw  him  at  Bayreuth  —  tall, 
slender,  with  sloping  shoulders,  a  lemon  blond, 
with  gray  about  the  temples.  His  eyes  are  pale 
blue,  the  shape  of  his  head  oval.  He  dresses  with 
rare  taste.  His  gaze  is  vague  unless  he  is  in 
terested,  and  the  easiest  way  to  interest  him  is 
to  contradict  any  one  of  his  pet  theories.  Dis 
illusioned,  incurious,  a  quiet-spoken,  charming 
gentleman,  he  has  at  a  moment's  notice  a  large 
amount  of  nervous  energy.  Theodore  Duret  de 
clares  that  he  once  looked  like  the  famous  Manet 
portrait,  a  pastel,  with  the  anarchistic  beard. 
Rothenstein's  sketch  is  not  too  flattering.  The 
three  pictures  presented  above  may  enable  you 
to  form  a  fair  average  of  the  Irish  iconoclast,  the 
man  who  is  ever  on  the  side  of  humanity,  right 
or  wrong;  the  writer  of  exquisitely  modulated 
prose,  the  pantheist,  who  has  said  "that  life 
is  an  end  in  itself,  and  the  object  of  art  is  to 
help  us  to  live." 

In  Salve,  the  second  volume  of  his  projected 
Trilogy,  he  paints  a  complete  portrait  of  George 
Russell,  poet  and  painter,  though  the  work  lacks 
the  variety  of  its  predecessor.  I  suppose  when 
the  final  book  appears  it  means  that  George 
Moore  has  put  up  the  shutters  of  his  soul,  not 
to  say  his  shop.  But  I  have  my  serious  doubts. 


Ill 

A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 


ABOUT  thirty  years  ago  there  was  a  small 
family  hotel  at  the  northeast  corner  of  Irving 
Place  and  Seventeenth  Street;  kept  by  an  elderly 
German  married  couple,  the  place  was  noted 
for  its  excellent  cooking,  its  home-like  atmos 
phere.  Many  well-known  Americans  and  Ger 
mans  in  literary  and  artistic  life  made  a  rendez 
vous  at  Werle's,  and  at  the  table  d'hote  dinner 
you  could  always  count  on  meeting  entertaining 
companions.  It  was  one  of  those  houses  where 
at  any  time  before  midnight  the  sounds  of  piano 
fortes,  violins,  violoncellos,  even  the  elegiac  flute, 
might  be  heard  and,  invariably,  played  by  skilled 
professional  hands.  There  was,  I  recall,  a  small 
vine-covered  entrance,  on  the  steps  of  which  we 
sat  listening  to  some  passionately  played  Chopin 
Ballade,  or  to  string  music  made  by  Victor  Her 
bert  and  his  friends  across  the  street. 

For  several  weeks  I  had  been  a  frequenter  of 
the  place,  when  the  mistress  of  the  establishment 
told  me  that  the  Red  Countess  would  be  at  one 
of  the  dinner- tables.  Later  I  saw  sitting  near 
the  centre  of  the  dining-room,  which  was  in  the 

49 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

basement,  a  large,  rather  heavy  woman,  with 
red  hair  of  the  rich  hue  called  Titian  by  aesthetic 
hair-dressers  and  ardent  reporters.  Her  face  was 
too  fleshy  for  beauty,  but  the  brows  and  the  in 
tense  expression  of  the  eyes  made  up  for  any 
lineal  deficiency.  She  must  have  been  in  the 
forties,  and  the  contours  of  her  finely  moulded 
head,  her  aristocratic  bearing  and  the  air  of  one 
accustomed  to  command  attracted  my  attention. 
This  lady  spoke  four  or  five  languages  and  was 
the  very  hub  of  the  company.  Finally,  after 
watching  her  and  listening  to  her  very  musical 
voice,  often  disturbed  by  ironic  intonations,  I 
asked  a  friend  her  name. 

"The  Red  Countess,  otherwise  the  Golden 
Serpent,  otherwise  Countess  Shevitch,  other 
wise  the  Princess  Racowitza,  otherwise  Helena 
von " 

"Stop!"  I  exclaimed.  "Is  this  the  heroine 
of  Meredith's  novel,  The  Tragic  Comedians?" 

"The  same,"  was  the  answer;  my  companion 
read  English,  even  the  English  of  Meredith,  an 
unusual  feat  for  a  German  three  decades  ago. 
The  moment  was  hardly  historic  for  me,  but  it 
sent  me  back  to  Meredith  and  to  his  exasperat- 
ingly  clever  story.  After  the  tragic  death  of 
Ferdinand  Lassalle,  Helena  von  Doenniges  mar 
ried  Prince  Yanko  Racowitza,  and  some  time 
after  his  death  the  widow  married  a  Russian  of 
birth,  Count  Shevitch,  a  political  agitator,  and 
with  him  came  to  New  York.  The  Russian 
Government  had  expropriated  the  estate  of  her 

5° 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

husband,  and  as  they  were  active  nihilists,  or 
anarchists,  or  any  one  of  the  names  invented  for 
the  public  so  as  to  discredit  the  war  for  liberty, 
the  Shevitches  had  to  make  their  living,  the  Count 
in  journalism,  for  the  propaganda,  the  Countess 
as  a  writer.  I  barely  recall  a  volume  of  short 
stories  signed  with  her  name,  the  theme  of  which 
was  devoted  to  proletarian  life  on  the  East  Side, 
a  theme  that  is  thrice  familiar  now,  but  in  those 
days  had  the  merits  of  novelty.  (Gorky  has 
since  taught  us  how  the  submerged  tenth  lives 
and  rots  and  dies.)  Soon  after  I  encountered  her, 
the  Countess  Shevitch  with  her  husband  re 
turned  to  Europe,  and  the  pair  settled  in  Mu 
nich,  where  their  home  was  a  magnet  for  the  lit 
erary,  musical,  and  artistic  elements  of  that 
delightful  city  on  the  green  river  Isar. 

If  you  have  read  Meredith's  vivid  but  one 
sided  book  you  will  not  need  to  be  told  that  its 
Tragic  Comedians,  Clo tilde  von  Rudiger  and 
Sigismund  Alvan,  are  masks  for  the  high-born 
Helena  von  Doenniges,  daughter  of  General  von 
Doenniges,  Bavarian  ambassador  to  Switzerland 
—  it  was  before  the  consolidation  of  the  German 
Empire  —  and  the  celebrated  agitator,  brilliant 
writer,  so-called  father  of  German  socialism, 
Ferdinand  Lassalle.  Meredith  told  the  story 
in  his  own  crackling,  incendiary  style,  after 
the  appearance  of  Helena's  book  —  veritable 
confessions  of  her  relations  with  Lassalle.  She 
was  a  Christian,  educated  in  a  Hebrew-hating 
house  (though  it  was  whispered  that  on  her 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

maternal  side  a  trace  of  Oriental  blood  was  not 
to  be  denied),  and  Lassalle  was  the  fine  flower 
of  the  Jewish- German;  a  thinker,  a  born  leader, 
and  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his  day  in  the 
Oriental  style,  the  style  of  which  Meredith  writes : 
"The  noble  Jew  is  grave  in  age,  but  in  his  youth 
he  is  the  arrow  to  the  bow  of  his  fiery  eastern 
blood,  and  in  his  manhood  he  is  ...  a  figure  of 
easy  and  superb  preponderance,  whose  fire  has 
mounted  to  inspirit  and  be  tempered  by  the  in 
tellect."  It  was  the  love  romance,  now  a  half- 
forgotten  one,  that  set  all  Europe  gossiping,  won 
dering  and,  finally,  sent  it  into  semi-hysterics, 
as  the  affair  turned  into  a  tragedy,  for  which  the 
woman  was  universally  condemned. 

The  main  events  in  this  lamentable  case  are 
not  so  simple  as  they  appeared  in  the  published 
reports  of  the  time,  1864;  nor  as  distorted  as 
they  stand  in  Meredith's  account.  It  must  be 
kept  in  view  that  the  chief  cause  of  the  Von 
Doenniges'  contempt  for  Lassalle  was  not  alone 
because  of  his  Jewish  ancestry  —  he  was  known 
to  be  a  free-thinker;  nor  was  his  connection  with 
the  German-Democratic  party  an  absolute  bar 
to  his  hopes  of  an  alliance  with  Helena  —  was 
not  Lassalle  on  intimate  terms  with  Bismarck? 
Had  not  Bismarck  jokingly  remarked  that  if 
Lassalle  seriously  entered  the  political  arena,  he, 
Bismarck,  would  put  up  the  shutters  of  his  shop? 
(There  was  a  grim  nuance  to  this  joke,  as  some 
remember  Bismarck's  curious  behaviour  at  the 
news  of  Lassalle's  sudden  death.)  Did  not  Las- 

52 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

salle  persuade  Bismarck  not  to  impose  a  property 
qualification  for  the  electoral  franchise  in  the 
Reichstag?  No,  Lassalle  was  far  from  being  a 
negligible  suitor;  his  father  was  rich,  he  had  been 
given  a  liberal  education,  he  was  considered  one 
of  the  most  learned  jurists  and  brilliant  pleaders 
at  the  contemporary  bar,  the  one  hope  of  the 
social  democracy  —  why  should  the  Von  Doen- 
niges  have  objected  to  such  a  union?  They 
occupied  the  best  of  social  positions  in  Munich, 
though  they  were  not  very  wealthy.  Helena 
had  in  her  own  right  seventy  thousand  thalers. 
But  her  parents  were  narrow,  prejudiced,  with 
old-fashioned  notions  about  manners  and  mor 
als.  They  were  strict  Protestants.  And  it  is 
here  the  shoe  pinched.  Ferdinand  Lassalle  was 
considered  one  of  the  most  dissolute  men  in 
Germany.  That  he  found  time  to  gamble, 
drink,  and  pursue  the  never-too-elusive  siren 
and  also  work  fifteen  hours  a  day,  like  the  intel 
lectual  giant  he  was,  must  be  set  down  to  the 
prevalence  of  the  legendary  in  the  lives  of  public 
men.  If  Liszt  had  led  the  existence  with  which 
he  was  accredited  he  would  not  have  composed 
all  the  music  he  did;  not  to  speak  of  his  piano 
forte  performances.  It  may  be  said  without  fur 
ther  discussion  that  Lassalle  was  neither  a  great 
saint  nor  a  prodigious  sinner.  And  being  fluent 
of  tongue,  always  on  view,  and  the  participator 
in  a  half-dozen  scandals,  he  was  credited  by  his 
enemies  —  and  he  had,  luckily  for  him,  a  legion 
—  with  leading  a  loose  life.  Which  was  mani- 

53 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

festly  impossible.  Yet  the  Von  Doenniges  were 
only  too  glad  to  believe  the  talk,  and  as  there  was 
one  ugly  spot  in  Lassalle's  career,  they  invariably 
pointed  it  out  to  the  exclusion  of  his  indisputable 
record  for  accomplishing  remarkable  things.  A 
reckless  man  in  speech  and  bearing,  Lassalle  was 
named  by  some  of  his  co-religionists.  Chutzpe, 
i.  e.,  a  daring,  impertinent  fellow. 

He  was  born  at  Breslau,  April  n,  1825.  After 
a  stormy  youth  he  entered  the  legal  profession 
and  astonished  every  one  by  his  knowledge  of 
Roman  law  and  Hegelian  philosophy.  Heracli- 
tus  the  Dark  was  the  thesis  of  one  of  his  books; 
Franz  von  Sickingen  the  name  of  his  only  drama. 
He  became  a  fighting  socialist,  absorbing,  it  is 
asserted,  most  of  his  socialistic  learning  from 
Karl  Marx  and  Ricardo.  He  was  called  "The 
Social  Luther,"  and  though  opposed  to  duelling 
-  he  refused  many  challenges  —  he  was  a  dead 
shot  and  a  dangerous  swordsman.  Lassalle  was 
the  first  president  of  the  General  Workingman's 
Club.  His  fighting  motto  was:  "State  support 
for  co-operative  production."  He  was  not  in 
sympathy  with  "passive  resistance"  as  a  weapon 
against  the  government.  A  fallacy,  he  cried: 
"Passive  resistance  is  the  resistance  which  does 
not  resist."  It  might  be  easy  to  maintain  that 
Lassalle,  if  he  had  lived  and  not  married  into 
the  philistine  Munich  family,  might  have  drifted 
into  the  ranks  of  the  militant  anarchists.  That 
he  would  have  broken  with  Marx  is  almost  a  cer 
tainty.  The  blood  ran  too  hotly  in  his  veins  to 

54 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

long  endure  the  opportunism  of  his  cooler- 
headed  colleague.  Possibly  Bakounine  —  Rich 
ard  Wagner's  associate  in  the  Dresden  insurrec 
tion  of  1849  —  would  have  charmed  the  younger 
man;  there  were  seventy  thousand  Bakounistes 
in  Spain  alone  in  1873.  And  would  Lassalle  have 
espoused  Marx's  side  in  the  polemical  duel  at 
Geneva  between  Bakounine  and  Marx,  Marx, 
who  had  contemptuously  called  Proudhon's 
philosophy  of  want,  "a  want  of  philosophy"? 
Germany  has  never  been  the  home  of  anarchy; 
socialism  has  always  outnumbered  its  adherents. 
Marx,  with  his  international-social  democracy, 
was  pinching  Lassalle's  national  ideal,  and  though 
Bismarck  was  flattering  the  youthful  agitator 
by  adopting  some  of  his  ideas,  Lassalle  was  in 
reality  dissatisfied.  Either  Bakounine  or  Prince 
Krapotkin  might  have  won  him  over.  But  his 
ambition  was  insatiable.  He  did  not  believe  in 
a  divided  throne.  He  was  romantic,  and  roman 
ticism  is  one  parent  of  philosophic  anarchism, 
though  Flaubert  wittily  called  the  god  of  the 
Romanticists  "an  upholsterer."  But  Russian 
revolutionists  had  not  made  their  appearance  on 
the  map  of  European  unrest  before  Lassalle  died. 
He  was  a  powerfully  built  man,  five  feet  six 
inches  in  height,  with  a  broad,  deep  chest. 
Brown-haired  and  blue-eyed,  he  was  vain  of  his 
appearance,  dressing  in  dandy  fashi'on  and  al 
ways  carrying  the  gold-headed  cane  of  Robes 
pierre,  which  was  presented  to  him  by  the  novel 
ist  Forster;  temperamentally,  Lassalle  recalled 

55 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

Mirabeau.  In  1841  Heinrich  Heine  met  him  in 
Paris  and  admired  him  exceedingly.  He  said  of 
him:  "Ferdinand  Lassalle  is  a  young  man  of  the 
most  distinguished  gifts  of  mind;  with  the  pro- 
foundest  learning,  the  widest  knowledge,  the 
greatest  acuteness  —  uniting  the  ardent  gifts 
of  exposition  and  energy  of  will  to  a  decisiveness 
in  action  which  is  astounding."  He  further 
more  addressed  him  as  "the  son  of  the  new 
Time."  To  the  gaze  of  the  sick  poet,  Lassalle 
was  the  one  man  destined  to  lead  his  beloved  peo 
ple  forth  from  the  wilderness  to  the  promised 
land;  —  "people"  in  Heine's  sense,  being  all  the 
poor  and  oppressed  of  this  world,  not  merely  his 
tribal  forebears.  Unhappily,  Lassalle  failed  to  re 
alise  the  golden  dreams  of  the  German  prophet. 
A  few  years  later  he  became  immersed  in  the 
legal  affairs  of  Countess  Hatzfeldt,  who,  desir 
ing  to  sever  her  marriage  with  a  gay  husband, 
employed  the  young  lawyer  with  the  eloquent 
tongue.  If  Helena  von  Doenniges  was  his  fate, 
so  was  this  Hatzfeldt  woman,  who  stood  by  him 
in  all  his  troubles,  always  playing  the  friend  — 
some  deny  she  was  anything  else  —  and  giving 
him  an  annuity  of  seven  thousand  thalers  for 
winning  the  case  against  her  husband,  that  gave 
her  a  share  in  large  landed  estates.  But  there 
was  a  disagreeable  occurrence  during  the  prog 
ress  of  the  trial.  Count  Hatzfeldt  presented  a 
certain  feminine  acquaintance  of  his  with  an 
annuity  bond  of  one  thousand  pounds  value. 
Lassalle,  they  say,  instigated  the  pursuit  of  both 

56 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

bond  and  lady  and  secured  the  former  for  the 
Countess.  His  companions  in  the  undertaking 
were  arrested,  indicted,  condemned  to  prison. 
Ferdinand  escaped  only  after  a  trial  in  Cologne, 
in  1848,  and  because  of  his  irresistible  address  in 
the  court-room.  Nevertheless  the  story  of  the 
stolen  casette  stuck  to  him,  and  coupled  with  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  imprisoned  six  months  for 
participation  in  the  socialist  riots  at  Diissel- 
dorf  in  1846,  his  reputation  was  too  much  for  the 
Von  Doenniges.  Wagner  disliked  him;  some  say 
he  was  jealous  of  his  personal  success.  Von 
Billow,  the  pianoforte  virtuoso,  admired  him, 
though  Lassalle  offended  him  when  he  declared 
that  Cosima  von  Billow  was  a  blue-stocking. 
"Citizen  of  the  world,"  as  he  delighted  to  call 
himself,  Lassalle  was  at  the  height  of  his  powers, 
intellectual  and  physical,  when  he  was  intro 
duced  to  Helena  von  Doenniges. 

This  must  have  been  some  time  in  January, 
1862.  They  had  heard  of  each  other  from  mutual 
friends:  he  of  her  beauty,  she  of  his  brilliancy 
and  witty  insolence.  She  was  very  beautiful;  a 
gold-crested  serpent  and  golden  fox,  Lassalle  had 
christened  her.  A  glance  at  her  portrait  painted 
by  Von  Lenbach  shows  us  a  girl  of  the  Mrs. 
Scott-Siddons  type;  poetic,  emotional,  impul-l 
sive,  weak  —  very  weak  —  as  to  will,  altogether 
a  young  woman  spoiled  by  a  doting  grandmother, 
a  schwarmer,  and  of  a  rebellious,  warm-blooded 
temperament.  Just  because  Lassalle  was  abused 
at  home  for  a  Jew,  a  demagogue,  and  a  man  who 

57 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

was  said  to  live  on  the  bounty  of  a  titled  woman 
—  the  latter  was  a  false  assertion  —  just  be 
cause  of  these  wellnigh  inscrutable  barriers,  the 
capricious  young  person  fell  in  love  with  him; 
while  he,  desirous  of  settling  in  life  and  not 
blandly  indifferent  to  the  social  flesh-pots  of  the 
proud  Munich  family,  assumed  the  attitude  of 
the  accepted  conqueror.  Meredith  gives  an 
electric  presentment  of  the  first  meeting;  but 
for  a  more  sober,  more  truthful  rendering  of  the 
same  incident,  it  is  better  to  go  to  Helena  von 
Doenniges-Shevitch  herself.  She  published  in 
Breslau,  1879,  a  little  volume  entitled  Meine 
Beziehungen  zu  Ferdinand  Lassalle  (My  Rela 
tions  with  Ferdinand  Lassalle).  It  is  said  that 
when  a  woman  writes  her  confession  she  is  never 
further  from  the  truth.  Heine  once  made  a 
wicked  jest  about  women  who  write  with  one 
eye  on  the  paper,  the  other  on  a  man;  adding 
that  the  Countess  Hahn-Hahn  must  alone  be  ex- 
cepted  because  she  was  one-eyed.  There  are 
many  lacuna  in  this  confession  of  an  unhappy 
woman,  yet  the  impression  of  sincerity  is  unmis 
takable;  too  much  so  for  Meredith,  who  was 
in  search  of  a  human  document  over  which  he 
could  play  his  staccato  wit  and  the  sheet- 
lightnings  of  his  irony. 

We  learn  from  Helena  that  she  was  no  novice 
at  flirtation  and  that,  like  many  girls  of  high 
spirit,  she  refused  to  be  auctioned  off  to  the  high 
est  bidder  by  her  worldly  parents.  She  resolved 
to  marry  Lassalle.  There  were  cries -of  indigna- 

58 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

tion.  She  was  sent  to  Switzerland,  but  at  the 
Righi  she  contrived  to  meet  Lassalle.  Contem 
poraneous  with  her  passion  for  him,  she  per 
mitted  the  amiable  attentions  of  a  young  Wal- 
lachian  prince,  Von  Racowitza,  a  Danube  osier 
with  Indian-idol  eyes,  as  Meredith  calls  him. 
This  prince,  affectionate,  good-hearted,  rich, 
was  the  choice  of  Helena's  parents.  She  told  him 
that  she  loved  Lassalle  and  that  she  intended  to 
marry  him.  The  prince  concurred  in  her  plans. 
He  was  a  nice  youth  and  as  pliant  as  a  reed. 
Finally,  at  Geneva,  in  the  summer  of  1864,  see 
ing  that  she  would  be  sequestrated  by  her  father, 
she  left  his  roof  and  went  to  Lassalle's  hotel, 
accompanied  by  her  faithful  servant,  Marie- 
Therese  —  a  venal  wretch,  as  she  found  out 
later. 

Then  Lassalle  assumed  his  most  operatic  at 
titude.  Elopement?  Never!  Either  you  come 
to  me,  a  gift  from  your  father's  hands  —  !  You 
may  guess  the  pose  of  the  fiery  orator.  Be 
wildered,  the  girl  could  not  understand  that  the 
man  feared  the  loss  of  political  prestige  if  he 
carried  off  the  daughter  of  a  prominent  govern 
ment  official.  So  he  procrastinated  —  those 
whom  the  gods  hate  they  make  put  off  the 
things  of  to-day  until  to-morrow.  Proudly — Las 
salle's  pride  was  veritably  satanic  —  he  returned 
Helena  to  a  family  friend  —  she  refused  to  go 
home  —  and  her  parents  were  summoned.  There 
was  a  painful  interview  between  the  mother  and 
Lassalle  —  Helena  in  the  background  —  one  that 

59 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

would  make  a  magnificent  fourth  act  for  an  am 
bitious  dramatist.  Meredith  puts  epigrams  in 
the  mouths  of  these  disturbed  people  that  are  so 
much  sawdust  —  do  not  all  his  people  talk  as 
brilliantly  and  as  inhumanly,  from  Father  Fev- 
erel  to  the  comedians  of  the  Amazing  Marriage? 
This  page  is  a  darker  one  in  the  Confessions. 
The  angry  mother  used  outrageous  language; 
Lassalle  kept  his  temper  and  went  away  de 
cidedly  the  hero  of  the  occasion.  Alas!  he  also 
left  Helena  to  the  tender  mercies  of  two  enraged 
parents.  The  General  entered  cursing  and  actu 
ally  dragged  his  daughter  by  the  hair  through  the 
dark  avenues  to  her  home.  Locked  up,  without 
the  slightest  hope  of  reaching  Lassalle  —  she  was 
told  that  he  had  immediately  left  the  city- 
threatened  with  severer  personal  abuse,  for  Gen 
eral  von  Doenniges  was  an  old-style  Teutonic 
father,  the  wretched  girl  lost  all  fcope.  Daily 
was  she  upbraided  by  her  parents,  by  her  sister 
and  brother.  The  sister's  engagement  had  been 
just  announced  to  a  member  of  some  old  family; 
so  old  that  it  was  dusty.  The  brother  played  on 
her  feelings  with  his  tears.  He  would  lose  caste 
if  his  sister  married  a  Hebrew.  (He  didn't  say 
"Hebrew,"  but  something  opprobrious,  pattern 
ing  after  his  father.)  In  a  word,  the  entire  family 
battery  was  trained  on  her,  and  as  she  despaired 
of  Lassalle  —  she  was  assured  by  forged  proofs 
that  he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  her  —  and  was  sick 
in  body  as  well  as  soul,  she  capitulated.  She 
promised  not  to  see  him.  What  she  didn't  know 
60 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

was  that  Lassalle  was  raising  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  at  her;  that  he  had  appealed  to  Church, 
State,  to  the  Court  itself;  that  he  had  recruited 
a  regiment  of  friends,  and,  finally,  that  he  had 
bribed  the  unspeakable  Therese,  Helena's  maid, 
with  one  hundred  and  eighty  francs  to  carry  a 
letter,  planning  an  escape,  to  her  mistress. 
Therese  took  the  letter  to  the  General  and  was 
given  twenty  francs  more,  thus  selling  the  poor 
Helena  for  forty  dollars.  Police  guarded  the 
house.  Negotiations  were  forced  on  Von  Doen- 
niges  by  the  now  aroused  Lassalle,  who  realised 
what  a  mistake  he  made  when  he  had  juggled 
with  fortune,  no  matter  what  his  exalted  mo 
tives. 

But  the  blind  bow-god  had  shot  his  last  ar 
row,  a  spent  one,  and  Mars  entered  as  Cupid 
fled.  Lassalle,  at  bay  and  furious  after  Helena 
had  been  forced  to  declare  in  the  presence  of  his 
two  friends  —  false  ones  she  declares  —  that  she 
would  not  see  him,  sent  a  challenge,  accompanied 
by  an  insulting  message,  to  the  General.  One 
day  Von  Racowitza  entered  and  bade  her  good 
bye.  He  was  going  to  fight  Lassalle  instead  of 
her  father,  who  was  too  old  and  feeble.  She  was 
incredulous.  Lassalle  in  a  duel !  Impossible!  And 
he  a  dead  shot — unhappy  boy !  The  next  day  the 
prince  returned,  pale,  fearful.  She  was  aghast. 
Lassalle  wounded!  A  falsehood!  Yet  so  he 
was,  and  fatally.  Three  days  later,  August  31, 
1864,  the  hope  of  Heinrich  Heine,  the  hope  of 
young  Germany,  died  in  agony  of  peritonitis,  an 
61 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

agony  that  opium  could  not  mitigate.  At  his 
death-bed  was  Countess  Hatzfeldt.  It  is  said 
he  died  repenting  his  crazy  action.  His  funeral 
was  followed  by  thousands.  Torch-light  pro 
cessions  moved  through  Germany.  He  was  a 
dead  god,  a  hero  translated  to  the  clouds.  Many 
believed  that  he  had  been  crucified  because  of 
his  love  for  the  people.  A  bullet,  fired  from  the 
pistol  of  a  novice,  had  snuffed  out  the  life  of  a 
man  who  was  the  most  commanding  figure  in 
Germany  at  the  time.  He  had  been  denounced 
as  a  brilliant  charlatan.  He  was  much  more, 
though  perhaps  partially  deserving  that  appella 
tion.  However,  a  man  whom  Bismarck  feared 
and  respected  was  something  more  than  a  brill 
iant  firebrand. 

And  now  our  credulity  must  be  strained. 
Six  months  after  Lassalle's  interment,  Helena 
von  Doenniges,  hating  her  parents,  at  war  with 
the  world  and  herself,  turned  to  the  only  friend 
she  had  in  all  Germany  —  Yanko  von  Racowitza. 
He  was  half  dying.  The  shock  of  events  had 
been  too  much  for  his  frail,  sensitive  nature.  In 
pity  and  as  a  terrible  penance  Helena  outraged 
the  world  by  marrying  the  slayer  of  her  lover. 
Five  months  later  she  buried  him.  What  hell 
this  woman  traversed  during  her  earthly  pil 
grimage  not  even  her  book  reveals.  She  admits 
her  weak  will;  she  was  between  the  devil  and 
the  deep  sea  —  her  parents  and  Lassalle.  She 
was  young,  trusting,  without  an  adviser.  Her 
father  was  brutal,  the  flesh  weak.  She  asks  us 
62 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

to  remember  "que  tout  comprendre,  c'est  tout 
pardonner."  But  no  one  has  pardoned  her, 
least  of  all  George  Meredith,  who  in  his  most 
merciless  manner  has  served  readers  with  much 
psychology  for  "those  acrobats  of  the  affec 
tions,"  as  Helena  and  Ferdinand  have  been 
called.  Meredith  depicts  Clo tilde  as  the  "im 
perishable  type  of  that  feminine  cowardice" 
to  which  he  says  all  women  are  trained.  This 
may  be  true  of  the  characters  in  the  book,  not 
of  Helena.  Young  women  who  are  imprisoned 
and  stuffed  with  lies  about  their  lover  are  not 
cowardly  if  they  weaken,  especially  after  the 
shocking  experience  Helena  had  undergone  with 
Lassalle.  She  had,  brave  as  she  was,  put  all  to 
the  test  and  had  lost.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  her 
nerves  played  her  false  when  the  man  —  as  she 
thought  —  had  deserted  her?  At  least  she  can 
not  be  compared  with  the  lady  in  Browning's 
Statue  and  the  Bust.  Helena  greatly  dared. 

As  to  her  marriage,  it  was  both  an  expiation, 
a  charitable  act  to  Racowitza,  a  defiance  to  the 
world,  and  also  a  cruel  self -laceration.  And  there 
was  possibly  another,  a  more  subtle  reason  than 
any  o£  these.  Flaubert  at  the  close  of  Madame 
Bo  vary  shows  us  Charles  Bo  vary  almost  happy 
to  talk  about  his  Emma  with  her  former  lover, 
Rodolphe.  Racowitza  was  the  one  person  on  earth 
to  whom  Helena  could  talk  of  Lassalle.  Possibly 
her  reminiscences  hastened  the  poor  lad's  death. 
And  young  women  don't  kill  themselves  for  love; 
that  notion  is  the  invention  of  conceited  males 

63 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

or  romantic  feminine  novelists.  To  live  and  to 
suffer  was  more  difficult  for  the  woman  than  to 
evade  the  consequences  of  her  weakness  by  slid 
ing  out  of  existence.  She  was  a  martyr,  no  longer 
a  weakling,  after  her  marriage.  She  has  been 
banned  by  all  the  sentimentalists;  whereas,  if  she 
had  run  away,  as  did  Cosima  Liszt- von  Billow, 
with  a  great  composer  (poor  Von  Bulow,  who 
sacrificed  himself  to  his  wife  and  to  his  friend, 
Richard  Wagner,  is  always  left  in  the  cold  by 
these  same  sentimental  folk),  then  Helena  von 
Doenniges  might  have  been  called  a  heroine. 
Nothing  succeeds  like  bathos.  She  should  be 
pitied,  not  censured.  And  behind  all  this  really 
tragic  romance  (not  a  tragic  comedy)  was  some 
thing  the  English  novelist  forgot  —  the  mating 
of  a  young  man  with  a  young  woman;  which  is, 
whether  we  subscribe  to  Schopenhauer's  view  or 
not,  the  most  significant  fact  in  the  life  of  our 
planet.  The  world  was  well  lost  for  love  by  Las- 
salle;  for  Helena  von  Doenniges  nothing  re 
mained  but  the  mastication  of  dead  sea  fruit. 


II 
A  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN 

A  few  years  ago  still  another  book  by  Mme. 
Racowitza,  as  she  chooses  to  call  herself,  though 
two  other  husbands  have  given  her  their  names, 
appeared  in  Germany  entitled  Von  Anderen  und 
Mir.  From  the  summit  of  nearly  sixty-eight 

64 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

years  the  heroine  of  one  of  the  most  romantic 
stories  that  filled  all  Europe  with  astonishment, 
pity,  and  indignation  now  surveys  her  past  to 
the  tune  of  over  three  hundred  pages,  and  again 
has  unstopped  the  tongue  of  scandal  and  has 
brushed  away  the  dust  from  several  forgotten 
tombs.  Mme.  von  Racowitza  has  been  more 
than  frank.  Her  skill  as  a  writer,  her  vast  world 
ly  experience,  her  brilliancy,  vivacity,  and  any 
thing  but  grandmotherly  regard  for  the  conven 
tions*  have  resulted  in  a  fascinating  autobiog 
raphy  that  is  sure  to  shock  many  and  in  which 
we  find  significant  light  thrown  on  the  memo 
rable  intrigue  and  death  of  Lassalle. 

The  author's  object  in  this  second  rehashing 
of  the  thrice-told  tale  is  something  besides  Las 
salle.  With  a  self-confidence  that  borders  on  the 
naivete  of  Marie  Bashkir tseff  she  begins  with 
her  love  affairs  when  she  was  in  pinafores.  Her 
precocity,  like  that  of  Lassalle,  suggested  genius. 
Because  of  her  family  she  met  all  of  the  shining 
lights  and  big  bow-wows  of  art,  literature,  fash 
ion,  and  politics.  Upon  her  intellect  there  is 
little  need  to  dwell;  she  assures  her  readers  of 
its  existence  on  every  page.  Of  her  beauty  much 
could  be  said.  Painted  as  a  girl  by  Wilhelm  von 
Kaulbach,  with  the  famous  Justus  von  Liebig 
an  admiring  third;  portrayed  by  Lenbach  in  the 
first  lovely  flush  of  womanhood,  we  might, 
nevertheless,  set  down  to  legend  the  miraculous 
reports  of  her  beauty  if  there  were  not  those 
alive  who  still  remember  her.  She  could  write 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

excellent  English  and  was  a  fluent  conversation 
alist  on  many  themes.  In  her  last  book  there 
are  three  photographs,  one  after  the  Lenbach 
portrait,  one  taken  in  1895,  the  third  in  1905. 
The  last  betrays  no  relaxation  of  the  pose  nick 
named  "grande  dame."  She  is  the  aristocrat 
who  became  a  social  outlaw,  the  Cleopatra, 
slightly  matured,  who  outlived  her  Antony.  The 
russet  coronal  has  been  replaced  by  venerable 
white  hair;  yet  Mme.  von  Racowitza,  to  judge 
from  her  book,  is  anything  but  venerable. 

She  was  born  in  1843;  this  she  does  not  tell 
us.  Her  father,  General  von  Doenniges,  came  of 
northern  stock.  He  was  proud  of  his  Viking  (?) 
blood.  Handsome  and  accomplished,  he  was 
taken  up  by  the  Prince  Royal  of  Bavaria,  after 
ward  Maximilian  II.  The  young  Pomeranian 
Protestant  developed  such  a  predilection  for 
public  life  (he  was  at  first  protected  by  Humboldt 
at  the  Berlin  University)  that  he  followed  his 
royal  friend  to  Munich  and  from  the  household 
service  was  promoted  to  Minister  and  Bavarian 
Ambassador.  As  a  girl  Helena  von  Doenniges 
romped  with  Ludwig  II,  later  the  patron  of 
Wagner.  She  relates  that  once  she  was  caught 
by  some  of  the  servants  engaged  in  pulling 
his  curly  black  hair.  Her  mother,  she  admits, 
was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  and  cultivated 
Hebrew  family  of  Berlin,  a  member  of  the  most 
cultured  circle,  to  which  the  Von  Mendelssohns, 
bankers;  Rahel,  Heine,  Varnhagen  von  Ense, 
and  other  well-known  people  belonged.  We  say 
66 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

"admitted,"  for  it  may  be  remembered  that  one 
of  the  reasons  given  for  excluding  Lassalle  from 
the  company  of  Helena  was  his  Jewish  birth. 
When  Rustow,  the  Swiss  officer,  friend  of  Las 
salle,  sought  to  calm  the  enraged  General  von 
Doenniges  at  Geneva  he  asked  him:  "Your 
wife,  Mme.  von  Doenniges,  was  she  not  born  a 
Hebrew? "  "Yes,"  was  the  grudging  reply,  " but 
that  was  many  years  ago."  As  there  always  has 
been  doubt  expressed  on  this  subject  it  is  re 
freshing  to  find  that  Mme.  von  Racowitza  is  so 
plain  in  her  statement.  Lassalle  asked  her  if 
she  had  had  many  love  affairs  before  their  meet 
ing.  She  put  him  off  with  a  poetic  allusion,  but 
in  her  last  volume  she  opens  widely  the  closet 
of  her  heart  and  displays  without  mock  modesty 
the  skeletons  that  hang  in  it.  There  is  quite  a 
neat  little  row  of  them.  At  ten  she  analysed 
love  like  a  Stendhal  in  petticoats.  At  twelve 
she  was  betrothed  to  a  soldier  of  fifty,  "ugly  as 
an  old  monkey";  later  she  lost  her  heart  to  a 
young  officer.  It  was  a  Romeo  and  Juliet  epi 
sode,  moonlit  gardens,  sighs  and  vows,  and  the 
odour  of  wild  roses;  but  Lassalle  drove  away 
these  idle  flirtings  with  Cupid  (serious  enough, 
she  is  fain  to  admit)  and  made  hot  love  to  the 
beautiful,  capricious  creature.  She  was  nineteen, 
he  thirty-eight. 

After  Lassalle's  death  Marx,  when  asked  by 
Sophie  Hatzfeldt,  the  elderly  lady  who  was  Las 
salle's  benefactor,  to  write  a  brochure  attacking 
Helena  von  Doenniges,  refused.  Liebknecht  and 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

Bebel  intervened  and  the  pamphlet  became  a 
veiled  attack  against  the  partisans  of  Lassalle, 
Hasselmann  and  Hasenclever.  We  mention 
these  things,  as  Mme.  von  Racowitza  has  ap 
parently  forgotten  some  of  them.  In  the  Reich 
stag,  September  17,  1873,  nine  years  after  Las- 
salle's  death,  Bismarck  in  the  course  of  his 
historical  controversy  with  Bebel  said:  "The 
most  intelligent  and  charming  man  I  ever  knew 
was  Ferdinand  Lassalle." 

After  the  death  of  Racowitza  his  widow  went 
on  the  stage.  Her  hatred  of  her  family  was  the 
chief  reason;  and  she  was  penniless.  She  married 
Siegwart  Friedmann,  a  German  actor  and  a 
handsome  man.  In  five  years  they  separated; 
tired  of  each  other,  she  hints.  Her  marriage  with 
Serge  von  Schevitsch  proved  happier. 

Her  pages  teem  with  portraits  of  men  and 
women  whose  names  to-day  are  memories. 
Bulwer,  Dickens,  Liszt,  Napoleon  III,  Eugenie, 
Makart,  Paul  Lindau,  Paul  Heyse,  Wagner, 
Cosima  Wagner  —  the  list  is  long.  Her  flight 
to  America  in  1877  with  Graf  von  Schevitsch 
and  her  life  here  until  1890  gives  her  readers 
some  interesting  reading.  She  was  friendly 
with  the  late  Joseph  Keppler  of  Puck,  with 
the  litterateur  Udo  von  Brachvogel,  and  Fred 
Douglass.  Of  the  last  and  his  treatment  in 
certain  social  circles  she  has  something  to  say; 
a  thorough-going  democrat,  she  cannot  forgive 
America  for  its  handling  of  the  colour  problem. 
She  writes  sharp  and  not  always  just  or  sensible 
68 


A  HALF-FORGOTTEN  ROMANCE 

words  of  us.  We  do  not  believe  that  Lassalle 
actually  uttered  all  of  the  sentiments  which  she 
quotes.  The  most  amazing  confession  of  this 
woman  is  one  she  omitted  to  make  in  her  book 
of  1879  (My  Relations  to  Ferdinand  Lassalle). 
It  is  this.  She  admits  that  hearing  he  was  at 
Righi-Kaltbad  for  his  health  she  slipped  away 
from  Geneva  and  sought  out  the  man  she  loved. 
There  had  been  a  separation  and  Lassalle  be 
lieved  the  affair  was  at  an  end.  Mme.  Raco- 
witza  glosses  over  this  meeting  in  the  first  reve 
lation,  but  is  very  explicit  in  the  second.  This 
meeting  in  the  mountains,  cunningly  planned  by 
the  girl,  was  the  first  link  in  the  fatal  chain  of 
circumstances  that  ended  in  the  catastrophe. 
The  book  is  well  worth  translating.  Perhaps  if 
George  Meredith  had  read  it  we  should  not  have 
had  The  Tragic  Comedians,  for  one  survivor  of 
the  twain  has  told  the  tale  in  different  fashion. 
Perhaps  on  the  other  hand  the  great  analyst 
might  have  exclaimed:  "See!  She  is  my  Clo- 
tilde  Rudiger  after  all/*  She  certainly  remains 
more  the  tragic  comedian  than  ever  in  Von 
Anderen  und  Mir. 

The  sequel  to  her  adventurous  life  was  in  the 
proper  romantic  key.  She  committed  suicide  in 
October,  1911,  at  Munich. 


IV 

THE  REAL  ISOLDE -WAGNER'S 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


"  That  I  should  have  written  Tristan  I  owe  to  you  and  I  thank 
you  for  all  eternity  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart" — Richard 
Wagner  to  Mathilde  Wesendonck. 

IT  was  Nietzsche,  was  it  not,  who  warned  us 
against  setting  too  much  store  by  the  auto 
biographies  of  great  men?  Now  the  autobiog 
raphy  of  Richard  Wagner  still  reposes  inviolate 
in  the  care  of  his  widow  at  Bayreuth.  Yet  all 
his  life  was  a  self -confession,  whether  in  deed, 
letter,  or  music.  Music  is  the  most  subjective  of 
the  arts,  and  Wagner  was  the  most  subjective 
composer  who  ever  put  pen  to  paper.  Every 
important  act  of  his  life  —  one  is  almost  tempted 
to  add  unimportant,  too  —  was  speedily  recorded 
in  tone;  and  his  music  if  it  could  be  translated 
into  speech  would  tell  tales  compared  to  which 
other  modern  tragedies  might  pale  their  romantic 
fires. 

To  write  a  music  drama  like  Tristan  and 

Isolde,  to  paint  in  tones  its  swirling  undertow  of 

passion  and  guilt,  demands  a  poet-composer  who 

must  feel  first,  subjectively  at  least,  a  tithe  of 

70 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

the  sensations  he  attempts  to  depict.  The  great 
est  love  story  in  the  world  —  for  it  is  more  com 
plete  and  vaster  in  its  consequences  than  the 
unhappy  loves  of  Paolo  and  Francesca  —  set  to 
the  thrilling  musical-dramatic  score,  is  what 
Richard  Wagner  accomplished  in  Tristan  and 
Isolde;  and  to  achieve  the  gigantic  task  he  under 
went  the  tortures  of  an  unhappy  love  second  only 
in  intensity  to  his  music.  What  the  man  put  into 
his  music  he  had  experienced.  His  drama  throbs 
at  times  like  an  open  wound,  as  did  the  souls  of 
the  enraptured  pair  in  real  life.  This  proceeding 
of  poets  and  composers  —  perhaps  of  mathe 
maticians  and  philosophers  if  we  could  but  in 
terpret  their  work  —  is  as  old  as  mankind. 
Goethe  embalmed  his  loves  in  deathless  verse 
and  thus  eased  the  aching  pain  of  his  heart  — 
better  say  hearts!  Heine  made  of  the  formula 
a  tiny  exquisite  lyric,  and  at  last  the  higher 
criticism  is  beginning  to  suspect  that  Shake 
speare,  who  conceived  Hamlet  and  Iago,Lear  and 
Macbeth,  Ophelia  and  Juliet,  was  himself  made 
up  of  the  elements  of  all  these  and  a  myriad 
other  characters.  Browning  averred  that  it  was 
the  lesser  Shakespeare  who  wrote  the  sonnets; 
all  the  worse  for  Browning's  judgment.  It  may 
have  been  the  lesser  Wagner  who  almost  dis 
rupted  the  Wesendonck  household;  but  why 
should  we  complain !  We  are  the  gainers.  Have 
we  not  a  precious  possession  in  Tristan  and 
Isolde?  This  is  the  pagan  view  of  the  situation, 
not  the  ethical  one. 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

Nearly  all  the  Wagner  biographers  have  slurred 
the  details  of  the  musician's  life  at  Zurich  from 
1853  to  1858.  The  reason  is  a  simple  one:  those 
who  knew  the  facts  were  not  allowed  to  or  would 
not  divulge  them,  and  those  who  did  not  know 
perforce  left  an  unexplained  gap.  Occasional 
rumours  were  blown  by  the  wind  of  surmise 
about  the  globe.  Every  one  has  since  been  cor 
roborated  in  the  published  letters  of  Wagner 
and  Madame  Wesendonck  and  the  Belart  study. 
These  letters  are  volcanic  on  Wagner's  side, 
though  he  does  speak  much  of  the  weather,  and 
his  pains;  the  few  included  in  the  volume  of 
Mathilde  are  by  no  means  passionate.  One  more 
love  affair  in  the  career  of  a  musical  Ishmael 
like  Wagner  need  not  particularly  interest  the 
world.  But  this  one,  the  Zurich  episode,  is  of 
prime  aesthetic  importance.  It  gave  birth  to  a 
magnificent  music  drama  and  its  outcome  made 
of  Wagner  again  a  wanderer,  without  a  home. 
For  a  time  he  had  been  an  anchored  parasite  in 
the  household  of  the  amiable  Otto  Wesendonck, 
and  it  is  safe  to  assert  that  if  the  love  and  its 
subsequent  catastrophe  had  not  occurred  we 
should  have  been  the  poorer  of  a  masterpiece, 
perhaps  several;  for  Die  Walkiire  was  written 
at  Zurich,  as  were  parts  of  Die  Meistersinger, 
Siegfried,  even  Parsifal  —  that  bizarre  compound 
of  rickety  Buddhism  and  bric-d-brac  Christian 
ity  —  was  planned,  so  rich  and  ripening  were  the 
influences  of  this  love  upon  the  fecund  brain  of 
Wagner.  He  began  the  music  of  Rheingold  in 

72 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

1853,  finished  it  in  1854;  and  the  June  of  that 
year  began  Die  Walkiire,  finished  in  1856; 
worked  over  Siegfried  and  finished  several  acts 
by  1857;  from  1857  t°  1858  was  busy  with  Tris 
tan,  wrote  the  five  songs  —  words  by  Mathilde 
Wesendonck  —  and  in  1859  finished  Tristan.  It 
is  no  exaggeration  then  to  say  that  these  five 
years  were  the  most  significant  in  Wagner's  life, 
the  very  flowering  of  his  genius. 

So  much  for  statistics.  These  tiresome  figures 
are  given  to  prove  that  Wagner  himself,  and  fol 
lowing  him,  the  majority  of  his  biographers, 
created  the  impression  that  his  second  spouse, 
Cosima  Liszt,  the  divorced  wife  of  Hans  von 
Billow,  was  the  one  passion  of  his  lifetime,  the 
mainspring  of  his  music,  the  Eternal  Feminine 
at  whose  loving  command  the  little  wizard 
wrought  his  miracles  in  tone.  So  were  we  all 
educated  to  believe  this.  Did  not  Richard 
Wagner  swear  to  the  fact  many  times?  Did  he 
not  lay  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  solemnly  as 
sure  the  world  that  to  Cosima,  his  well-beloved, 
he  owed  all?  And  in  doing  so  he  was  only  as 
human  as  the  rest  of  his  sex  —  the  last  woman 
usually  counts  the  most  in  the  life  of  a  man; 
this  natural  fact  possibly  gave  birth  to  the  prov 
erb  about  straws  on  the  back  of  camels.  Some 
day  the  demi-god  nonsense  about  this  composer 
will  be  entirely  dissipated  and  then  behold  —  a 
man  will  emerge,  with  all  a  man's  failings  and 
virtues.  Ernest  Newman  has  knocked  Wagner's 
philosophical  pretensions  to  smithereens,  as  did 

73 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

Dmitri  Merejkowsky  the  hollow  sham  of  Tol 
stoy's  prophetic  and  religious  vapourings.  So 
the  official  autobiography  of  Wagner  given  to  the 
world  does  not  after  all  paint  for  us  the  com 
poser's  true  portrait. 

Therefore,  it  was  not  Cosima  Wagner,  but 
Mathilde  Wesendonck  who  started  Wagner's 
imaginative  machinery  whirring.  And  the  most 
singular  part  about  the  mutual  letters  of  Rich 
ard  and  Mathilde  is  that  they  were  issued  with 
the  official  stamp  of  Bayreuth.  That  Madame 
Wagner  permitted  this  at  once  makes  us  sus 
picious.  How  many  letters  are  not  in  the  col 
lection,  for  there  are  many  unaccountable  omis 
sions  in  this  apparently  frank  volume!  Let  us 
relate  the  main  facts.  Wagner  had  been  in  love 
with  Mathilde  Wesendonck,  the  wife  of  a  wealthy 
Zurich  merchant,  for  six  years.  This  is  stated  in 
a  letter  to  the  lady  dated  August  21,  1858.  He 
met  her  in  1852,  and  a  year  later  they  were  both 
immersed  in  a  sea  of  passion  and  trouble.  Yet 
we  have  been  told  by  Glasenapp  and  Chamber 
lain  that  Wagner  only  fell  in  love  with  her  in 
1857,  when  he  lived  in  a  small  cottage,  "on  the 
green  hillock,"  close  by  Wesendonck's  stately 
villa.  Hans  Belart,  in  his  Richard  Wagner  in 
Zurich,  published  some  years  ago,  was  very 
frank  in  his  disclosures  of  the  affair,  treating 
Wagner  as  if  he  were  the  veriest  ingrate  and 
home- wrecker;  whereas,  if  Otto  Wesendonck 
had  cared  to  put  his  foot  down,  the  intrigue, 
probably  platonic,  would  have  been  soon  stopped. 

74 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

But  he  did  not  choose  to  do  so,  and  why  is  not 
discoverable  in  the  letters  that  Wagner  wrote 
Madame  Wesendonck,  or  Otto  Wesendonck  — 
that  is,  in  the  published  letters.  What  Wagner 
thought  of  this  husband  we  may  see  in  the  figure 
of  King  Marke  in  Tristan  and  Isolde,  who  sings: 
"0  Tristan!"  so  sonorously  and  so  sorrowfully 
when  he  discovers  the  pair. 

The  sad  side  of  the  story  was  not  We 
sendonck,  but  Wagner's  wife,  Minna  Planer- 
Wagner,  who,  sick,  old,  and  neglected,  ate  her 
bread  in  sorrow  at  his  table,  a  table  provided 
by  the  bounty  of  others.  She  knew  that  Ma- 
thilde's  influence  had  become  paramount,  and 
the  letters  and  diaries  of  Wagner  are  full  of  nai've 
complaints  of  her  selfishness!  " Destiny  dooms 
me;  having  been  constantly  too  good,  and  having 
submitted  always,  I  have  spoiled  my  wife  so 
that  her  demands  on  me  are  becoming  impos 
sible."  The  principal  demand  was  only  for  his 
love  —  impossible,  indeed.  He  dedicated  the 
Walkiire  prelude  to  Mathilde  in  1854.  In  the 
original  poem  of  Gottfried  of  Strasburg,  the 
potion  it  is  which  arouses  Tristan  and  Isolde  to 
their  fatal  undoing. 

Mathilde,  with  a  keener  precision  than  Wag 
ner  of  the  psychologic  possibilities  of  the  situa 
tion,  caused  him  to  change  this  rather  mechan 
ical  operation  of  fate  to  the  mutual  glances  of 
the  lovers.  "His  eyes  on  mine  were  fastened." 

Minna  did  not  like  this  spiritual  friendship. 
She  was  a  simple  soul,  and  the  complexity  of  her 

.75 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

husband's  genius,  its  many  voracious  tentacles 
groping  in  the  void  for  sympathy  —  is  not 
genius  always  selfishly  cruel !  —  made  her  miser 
able.  And  then,  worst  of  all,  she  did  not  com 
prehend  his  music.  Rienzi  was  her  favourite. 
Its  theatric  pomp  and  post-Meyerbeerian  brass- 
bands  were  to  her,  educated  as  an  actress,  the 
acme  of  greatness.  Rienzi,  too,  made  money. 
It  was  popular.  She  loathed  Walkiire;  she  de 
clared  that  "It  is  an  erotic  and  an  immoral 
stupidity."  Of  the  latter  drama  she  wrote  from 
Dresden,  where  she  went  for  a  cure:  "They  — 
Tristan  and  Isolde  —  remain  nevertheless  a 
couple  too  amorous."  Fancy  Robert  Browning 
misunderstood  by  his  poet  wife.  What  tragedy 
is  all  this.  Minna  did  not  suspect  the  greatness 
of  her  little  lord,  who  shook  off  his  early  operas 
with  disgust.  The  future  was  to  be  his  —  and 
who  was  to  pay  the  rent?  quoth  Minna.  Ah, 
these  practical  wives  of  men  of  genius  —  why  will 
they  persist  in  feeding  and  lodging  their  hus 
bands!  Poor  women  —  no  Daudet  has  ever  es 
poused  their  cause,  has  sung  their  praises! 

In  the  letter  alluded  to  there  occur  the  most 
damaging  charges.  (This  letter,  or  for  that  mat 
ter  many  of  the  following  details,  are  naturally 
not  in  the  letters  of  Wagner  and  Madame  We- 
sendonck.)  Minna  writes: 

"The  fatal  Tristan,  which  decidedly  I  do  not 
care  for  (though  not  because  of  the  reasons  of  its 
origins)  is,  I  think,  coming  laboriously  into  the 
world,  with  long  periods  of  intermission  and  great 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

efforts!  It  seems  to  me  that  the  travail  under 
such  conditions  cannot  be  a  happy  one.  The 
news  of  the  death  of  the  little  Guido,  youngest 
son  of  the  Wesendoncks,  has  depressed  me  ter 
ribly.  I  believe  it  is  but  the  dispensation  of 
Providence  that  God  visits  affliction  on  this 
heartless  woman,  spoiled  by  a  happy  life.  How 
many  times  have  I  hoped  that  the  Lord  would 
bring  about  a  change  in  her  through  sickness  of 
one  of  her  children ;  but  see !  I  still  tremble  with 
the  terror  of  the  thought." 

"  Reasons  of  its  origins ! "  "  Heartless  woman ! " 
These  are  strong  phrases.  In  the  meantime 
Wagner  up  at  the  villa  —  Minna  at  the  cottage 
—  was  revelling  in  the  bliss  of  a  sympathetic  soul. 
A  beautiful  creature,  young,  intellectual,  poetic, 
Mathilde  was  a  prolific  author.  Not  only  did 
she  write  five  poems  which  were  set  by  Wagner 
for  soprano  voice  and  piano,  but  dramas,  Mar- 
chen,  poems,  epic  and  lyric,  puppet-plays.  Her 
muse  was  inspired  by  such  themes  as  Frederick 
the  Great,  Edith,  Gudrun  —  three  dramas  of 
hers  —  and  also  by  the  rhythms  of  music.  Her 
work  reads  rather  commonplace  nowadays, 
though  fluent  in  the  romantic  imagery  of  her 
time.  To  Wagner  it  must  have  appealed,  for 
two  of  the  five  songs,  In  the  Hothouse  and 
Dreams,  he  called  Studies  for  Tristan  and  Isolde. 
Dreams  was  utilised  in  the  duo  of  the  second  act 
of  Tristan,  while  in  the  prelude  to  the  third  we 
recognise  the  profile  of  In  the  Hothouse. 

Of  rare  culture  then,  Mathilde  Wesendonck 

77 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

caught  the  many-coloured  soul  of  Richard  Wagner 
up  into  a  fiery  cloud,  and  only  did  he  return  to 
earth  when  Minna  complained  or  his  purse  grew 
light.  How  the  Wagners  lived  at  this  period  was 
never  exactly  known  until  the  recollections  of  the 
composer  Roberd  Freihern  von  Hornstein  were 
published.  Wagner  was  comfortably  housed.  For 
form's  sake  he  paid  a  nominal  rental.  Every 
year  from  his  friend  Alexander  von  Ritter's 
mother  he  received  eight  hundred  thalers.  His 
Zurich  admirer,  Jacob  Sulzer,  looked  after  the 
table;  a  sportsman,  he  weekly  sent  him  fish  and 
game.  The  wine  came  from  Wesendonck's  cel 
lar.  Brockhaus,  the  publisher,  gave  him  royal 
ties  on  his  books.  And  there  were  tantiemes  from 
early  operas.  Von  Hornstein  relates  that  some 
how  or  other  money  always  flowed  in  —  was 
there  not  Franz  Liszt,  golden-hearted  Liszt! 
Elegance,  plenty,  refined  surroundings,  company 
—  Ah,  the  Wagner  legend  pales  day  by  day,  that 
charming  legend  of  his  continual  poverty!  He 
had  friends  rich  and  eager  to  assist  him.  The 
only  mortifying  thing  there  is  to  note  is  that  so 
many  of  these  friends  have  since  told  the  world 
how  they  helped  the  struggling  genius.  Always 
let  the  world,  as  well  as  your  right  and  left  hand, 
know  how  much  you  lend,  seems  to  have  been 
the  motto  of  this  band.  Liszt  was  the  exception. 
He  gave  like  a  prince  of  the  Renaissance  and 
never  took  heed  of  his  bounty.  I,  for  one,  am 
glad  that  Wagner  accepted  assistance.  If  ever 
the  world  owed  a  man  a  living,  he  was  that  man. 

78 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

We  should  be  grateful  to  those  who  helped  him 
to  the  leisure  which  gave  us  masterpieces  —  only 
wondering  at  the  bad  taste  displayed  by  some 
in  publishing  their  generosity. 

Gossip  began  to  breed.  Minna's  attitude 
toward  Mathilde  was  that  of  the  implacably 
jealous  wife.  Von  Billow  wrote  Richter  in 
1858  that  Wagner  was  financially  embarrassed, 
"something  occurred  between  him  and  Wesen- 
donck."  And  Wagner  hints  to  a  friend:  "I  have 
good  reasons  for  not  asking  him"  —  Wesen- 
donck  —  "to  aid  me."  Liszt's  Princess  Sayn- 
Wittgenstein  was  called  by  the  friends  of  both 
the  enamoured  ones,  and  replied,  as  might 
have  been  expected:  "I  do  not  believe  the 
worst.  But  even  should  this  be,  one  can  say 
honestly  that  in  this  world  everything  is  rela 
tive,  even  justice  and  fidelity.  .  .  .  We  truly 
say  that  genius  belongs  to  all  the  world,  and  that 
every  one  claims  his  portion."  Spoken  like  a 
merciful  woman  —  and  also  as  one  rowing  in  the 
same  boat  with  Mathilde  Wesendonck. 

The  crash  occurred  in  1858.  It  was  not  unex 
pected.  Otto  Wesendonck's  patience  had  been 
sorely  tried.  He  loved  Wagner,  the  man,  and 
adored  the  genius  of  the  musician.  But  there 
were  limits.  His  wife  gave  a  concert  at  the  villa 
in  1858  and  Wagner  conducted.  It  was  an  event; 
musicians  came  from  Germany  to  hear  the  new 
music  of  the  exiled  revolutionist.  He  was  pre 
sented  with  a  gold  baton.  It  was  the  gift  of 
Mathilde  and  supposedly  from  Paris.  Herr 

79 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

Siber,  a  Zurich  goldsmith,  made  it  and  told  the 
story  to  Belart  of  the  pious  deception  practised 
by  the  donor.  Evidently  Mathilde  knew  her 
Richard!  Liszt  was  expected  to  visit  Zurich 
August  20.  When  he  arrived,  great  was  his 
amazement  to  find  that  Wagner  had  left  three 
days  before,  left  precipitately,  better  say  fled 
the  city.  Why?  Silence  again,  even  in  these 
new  letters.  In  1859  Mathilde  wrote  that  Wag 
ner  had  left  "voluntarily."  She  continues: 
"But  what  is  the  use  of  questioning  birds?  We 
have  commemorated  that  event  in  Tristan  and 
Isolde.  The  rest  is  silence." 

But  it  was  not  silence.  The  facts  are  these  - 
never  printed  until  Belart,  through  his  dogged 
industry,  unearthed  them.  The  day  of  August 
n,  1858,  Minna  Wagner  went  to  Otto  Wesen- 
donck's  villa,  and  after  telling  the  mistress  of  the 
establishment  what  she  thought  of  her,  she  in 
formed  the  husband  of  the  state  of  affairs  as 
she  believed  them  to  be.  Wesendonck  sent  for 
Wagner.  What  happened  then  only  two  men 
could  tell  and  they  never  did,  though  Wesen 
donck  curtly  informed  Wagner's  curious  friends 
that  he  had  advised  the  composer  to  leave  the 
town.  Broken-hearted  Wagner  asked  Mathilde: 
"Where  Tristan  is  going  wilt  thou  Isolde  fol 
low?"  But  there  were  children  and  a  comfort 
able  home  and  a  reputation  to  be  considered 
—  Isolde  did  not  wave  the  burning  signal  torch, 
and  the  miserable  man  left  after  borrowing  from 
Sulzer  money  enough  to  get  to  Geneva.  There 
80 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

old  Jakob  Susstrunk,  the  barber,  gave  him  the 
necessary  means  for  a  further  flight  to  Venice. 
In  Venice  he  arrived,  sick,  almost  penniless, 
alone,  all  that  he  loved  in  Zurich,  the  future  a 
wall  of  despair. 

He  has  related  his  experiences.  While  con 
fined  to  his  bed,  the  plaintive  cry  of  a  gondolier 
on  a  lonely  canal  gave  him  the  piping  of  the 
shepherd  in  Tristan  —  at  death's  door,  the  in 
stinct  of  the  artist  was  not  subdued.  He  noted 
down  the  melody,  as  he  also  registered  for  future 
use  the  heart-throbs  of  his  passion  and  Isolde's. 

Wagner  fell  to  keeping  a  diary.  This  he  sent 
from  time  to  time  to  Zurich.  Mathilde  answered 
discreetly.  Otto  was  evidently  in  the  secret,  and 
his  jealousy  appeased.  Doubtless  he  said  to 
himself  after  the  manner  of  fatuous  musical 
amateurs:  " It  is  a  great  thing  that  my  wife  has 
inspired  the  harmless  passion  of  an  extraordi 
nary  composer."  At  any  rate,  the  correspon 
dence  which  languished  ceased,  was  renewed,  and 
lasted  until  1871.  In  the  interim,  Wagner  had 
met  Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  and  become  famous,  had 
seen  Cosima  von  Billow  and  stolen  her  from  her 
husband;  had,  after  the  death  of  Minna  in  1866 
—  poor  sacrificed  Minna!  —  married  Cosima, 
and  the  old  romance  went  up  in  smoke.  Wag 
ner  had  plotted  suicide  in  Venice;  luckily  he 
changed  his  mood.  A  perfect  final  cadence  this 
self-murder  would  have  been  for  the  greatest 
romance  of  his  life.  That  it  ended  in  chilly  pro 
prieties;  that  he  wrote  Mathilde,  adding  a  post- 
Si 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

script,  regards  from  Cosima;  that  Siegfried,  his 
son,  was  years  later  petted  in  the  household  of 
Mathilde  (Wagner  died  in  1883,  Mathilde  in 
1902,  a  widow  since  1896;  she  was  born  1828) 
— Subtle  are  the  ways  Life,  the  comedian,  has  of 
ending  our  little  frenzies.  "Auf  Wiedersehen! 
Auf  Wiedersehen!  Soul  of  my  soul,  farewell! 
Auf  Wiedersehen!"  wrote  Wagner  before  he  left 
Zurich.  He  did  not  believe  it  was  a  genuine  fare 
well;  but  the  Comic  Spirit,  which,  according  to 
George  Meredith,  enjoys  the  merry  hamstring 
ing  of  our  destinies,  took  Wagner  at  his  word,  and 
though  he  saw  Mathilde  once  more,  the  two  were 
doomed  to  remain  apart,  and  tragic  comedians 
that  they  were,  to  end  their  lives  in  the  odour  of 
respectable  married  folk;  Tristan  and  Isolde 
settled  down  in  bourgeois  comfort  —  but  not  to 
gether!  Destiny  shook  the  dice  and  made  of 
these  two  rebels  conventional  tax-payers  and  not 
citizens  of  eternity.  Perhaps  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca,  those  contemporaries  of  the  stars,  were 
braver. 

II 
WAGNER'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

If  the  long-expected  autobiography  of  Richard 
Wagner,  My  Life,  had  appeared  after  the  death 
of  Cosima  Wagner  a  cynic  would  have  been  jus 
tified  in  saying  that  the  composer's  widow  was 
indulging  in  a  posthumous  revenge.  Certainly 
nothing  he  ever  wrote  in  his  voluminous  literary 
82 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

works  has  produced  in  the  minds  of  his  readers 
so  definite  an  impression  of  meanness  and  mighti 
ness  as  do  these  memoirs.  The  marked  impres 
sion  is  that  Wagner  was  more  Mime  and  Alberich, 
even  Fafner,  than  Siegfried  or  Tristan  or  Wotan. 
His  contemporaries  have  described  Will  Shake 
speare  as  a  lovable  man,  both  merry  and  melan 
choly  in  his  moods.  We  like  to  think  of  him  as  a 
Hamlet  or  a  Prospero.  But  Wagner  kept  all  that 
was  great,  noble,  poetic  for  his  scores;  in  his 
private  life  he  often  behaved  like  a  malicious,  a 
malignant  monkey.  He  lied.  He  whimpered 
when  he  begged,  and  he  was  always  begging. 
He  invariably  deceived  women  attracted  by  his 
genius  and  a  magnetic  personality.  And  he 
abused  every  friend  he  ever  had,  abused  them 
when  living  and  after  death  in  this  book.  A 
singularly  repulsive,  fascinating  man  and  a  brave 
one.  What  was  his  reason  for  giving  to  the  world 
so  unflattering  a  portrait  of  himself? 

In  his  lifetime  he  made  enemies  daily  because 
of  his  venomous  tongue.  Some  evil  fairy  be 
stowed  upon  him  the  gift  of  saying  aloud  what 
was  in  his  mind,  and  not  infrequently  he  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head,  told  the  truth  in  high  places 
where  concealment  would  have  been  a  virtue. 
He  was  a  moral  or  immoral  typhoon  that  swept 
away  the  evil  and  good  alike  in  its  elemental 
fury. 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 


We  are  informed  that  between  the  years  1868 
and  1873  Wagner  compiled  these  memoirs  from 
diaries  and  other  memoranda  which  he  had  pre 
served  for  thirty-five  years.  He  dictated  from 
these  notes  to  Cosima  and,  it  is  said,  to  Ludwig  II 
of  Bavaria.  The  book  was  set  up  by  French 
compositors  who  did  not  understand  German; 
twelve  copies  were  printed  and  the  type  then 
distributed.  Of  these  twelve  copies  eight  were 
held  by  his  wife  and  four  were  entrusted  among 
some  other  friends.  It  is  a  significant  fact  that 
Friedrich  Nietzsche  read  the  proofs  of  the  work, 
and  while  he  never  broke  the  seal  of  secrecy  his 
knowledge  of  the  peculiar  Wagner  psychology 
enabled  him  to  write  his  later  attacks  on  the 
master  from  superior  vantage-ground.  Strictly 
speaking,  there  is  less  novelty  in  My  Life  thtin 
we  had  expected.  The  earlier  biographies  by 
Glasenapp  and  Henry  T.  Finck,  the  last-named 
being  the  best  in  English  and  ranking  with  the 
best  in  German,  not  to  mention  Wagner's  own 
writings,  contain  much  that  is  here  retold  by  the 
composer.  The  funeral  ceremonies  of  Weber, 
the  story  of  Spontini,  the  first  performances  of 
Liebesverbot  and  Beethoven's  Ninth  Symphony, 
and  a  score  of  other  anecdotes  have  long  since 
been  in  print.  What  is  fresh  is  the  details  of 
Wagner's  childhood,  his  courting  of  and  marriage 
with  Minna  Planer,  and  the  account  of  his  first 
meetings  with  Cosima  Liszt,  then  the  wife  of  his 

84 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

dearest  friend  and  worshipper  Hans  von  Billow. 
What  he  has  omitted  —  or  is  it  the  fault  of 
Bayreuth?  —  would  fill  two  more  volumes  of  the 
same  size  as  these.  He  slurs  over  the  Wesen- 
donck  affair,  which  is  all  the  more  curious  be 
cause  only  a  few  years  ago  Bayreuth  permitted, 
nay  edited,  the  publication  of  the  Wagner- 
Wesendonck  correspondence,  chiefly  his  letters. 
Furthermore  Wagner,  the  friend  of  kings  when 
he  died,  seems  to  have  forgotten  completely  his 
share  in  the  Dresden  uprising  of  1849.  That  he 
was  a  red-hot  revolutionist  is  proved  by  his  Art 
and  Revolution.  An  intimate  friend  of  that 
sombre;  enigmatic  nihilist  Bakunin  (Bakounine 
is  the  better  spelling),  Wagner  it  was  who  in 
ducted  the  harmless  Roeckel  into  the  movement, 
and  not,  as  he  vaguely  insinuates,  he  who  was  led 
away  by  Roeckel.  Ferdinand  Praeger's  Wagner 
as  I  Knew  Him  is  a  document  of  profound 
value,  one  that  was  not  invalidated  by  Ashton 
Ellis's  pamphlet  entitled,  1849;  a  Vindication. 
But  after  all  Wagner  was  only  an  amateur  so 
cialist. 

All  the  composers  of  his  day,  the  big  as  well 
as  the  little,  Schumann,  Mendelssohn,  Meyer 
beer,  Spohr,  Marschner,  Spontini,  Hiller,  Ber 
lioz,  were  attacked  by  Wagner,  who  saw  with  the 
clairvoyant's  eye  of  hatred  and  with  a  touch  of 
his  baneful  pen  transformed  them  into  mean, 
grotesque,  even  vile  personalities.  Heine  didn't 
escape,  nor  Hebbel  and  Auerbach.  But  all  this 
is  the  obverse  side  of  the  medal,  as  we  shall  pres- 

85 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

ently  see.  This  little,  selfish  monster  of  genius, 
sickly,  puny  in  size,  his  mask  of  appalling  ugli 
ness,  bowlegged  (he  wore  a  long  cloak  to  hide 
this  defect,  for,  as  he  said,  he  didn't  wish  to  be 
taken  for  a  Jew),  with  large,  protuberant  blue 
eyes,  from  which  at  times  gleamed  the  most  ex 
traordinary  fire;  this  stunted  man,  hated  and 
despised,  nevertheless  could  make  himself  very 
attractive.  He  was  full  of  fun  and  boyish  antics 
to  old  age.  Praeger  relates  that  when  in  London 
conducting  the  stodgy  Philharmonic  Orchestra 
Wagner's  exuberance  took  the  form  of  standing 
on  his  head.  Wagner  never  grew  up;  his  was  a 
case  of  arrested  moral  development.  He  re 
tained  the  naive  spites  and  vanities  and  sav 
ageries  of  his  boyhood,  while  his  intellect  and 
emotional  development  had  become  those  of  a 
superman.  He  neither  forgot  nor  forgave.  He 
was  Dantesque  in  his  memory  of  personal  af 
fronts,  and  if  he  couldn't  put  all  his  adversaries 
in  hell,  as  did  the  Italian  poet,  he  remembered 
them  in  his  autobiography,  and  in  at  least  one 
instance  he  transferred  the  personality  of  a  hos 
tile  critic  into  the  scene  of  Die  Meistersinger  — 
Beckmesser  is  a  supposed  portrait  of  Eduard 
Hanslick,  the  Vienna  music  critic.  Hanslick  was 
present  when  the  poem  was  read,  and  Wagner 
relates  that  he  left  deeply  offended.  Is  it  any 
thing  to  wonder  over?  Nor  is  it  surprising  that 
Hanslick  too  never  forgot.  A  trait  of  Wagner's 
is  his  constant  amazement  when  a  man  or  a  wom 
an  he  has  insulted  or  betrayed  dares  to  raan- 
86 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

ifest  feelings  of  retaliation.  In  these  matters 
he  is  genuinely  childish.  To  the  very  end,  de 
spite  his  imperial  success,  he  never  succeeded 
in  bringing  his  inner  nature  into  harmony  with 
the  external  world.  A  man  of  genius,  he  was  a 
stranger  in  his  own  land  to  the  end. 

We  have  said  that  the  significant  portions  of 
these  memoirs  are  set  forth  not  in  those  sections 
that  deal  with  the  artist's  psychology  but  in  his 
purely  human  relations.  Of  him  it  might  be  said 
that  nothing  inhuman  was  foreign  to  him.  And 
we  propose  to  deal  with  this  side  of  him.  Mr. 
Finck  has  painted  a  very  sympathetic  portrait, 
while  Glasenapp  is  too  much  of  Bayreuth  to 
offer  the  entire  truth.  It  is  a  pity  that  the 
monumental  life  begun  by  the  late  Hon.  Mrs. 
Burrell  was  not  finished.  It  is  not  printed  but 
engraved  throughout  and  illustrated  in  fac 
similes  of  every  document  quoted.  A  copy  is 
in  the  British  Museum,  and  the  original  is  in  the 
possession  of  her  husband.  As  a  critic  has  said, 
"many  as  have  been  the  biographies  of  the  com 
poser,  and  loud  as  has  been  the  chorus  of  praise 
bestowed  upon  each,  it  was  reserved  for  Mrs. 
Burrell  to  establish  the  accurate  form  of  his 
mother's  maiden  name."  My  Life,  notwith 
standing  its  revelation  of  a  mean,  tricky,  lofty1! 
soul,  one  that  wavered  along  the  scale  from  Cal 
iban  to  Prospero,  will  rank  among  the  great 
autobiographies  of  literature.  Its  place  on  the 
shelf  will  be  between  Benvenuto  Cellini  and 
Goethe.  (Wahrheit  und  Dichtung  aus  Mei- 

8? 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

nem  Leben.)  The  irresponsible  sculptor  and 
the  wise  poet  —  surely  Wagner  had  in  him  some 
thing  of  the  stuff  of  both.  Unmoral,  reckless, 
consumed  by  the  loftiest  of  ideals,  shoving  aside 
all  that  opposed  him,  breaking  faith  with  man 
and  woman  alike,  turning  his  sorrows  into  pas 
sionate  song,  vainglorious  and  cowardly,  lust 
ful  and  outrageous  for  his  ideal,  always  keeping 
his  star  in  view,  he  was  kin  to  Cellini  and  he  was 
kin  to  Goethe.  The  world  will  not  willingly  let 
die  such  a  book  as  this. 


II 

Nietzsche  wrote  some  time  about  1887-88, 
"Was  Wagner  German  at  all?  We  have  some 
reason  for  asking  this.  It  is  difficult  to  discern 
in  him  any  German  trait  whatever.  Being  a 
great  learner,  he  has  learned  to  imitate  much 
that  is  German;  that  is  all.  His  character  it 
self  is  in  opposition  to  what  has  hitherto  been 
regarded  as  German,  not  to  speak  of  the  German 
musician!  His  father  was  a  stage-player  named 
Geyer.  A  Geyer  is  almost  an  Adler  (Jewish 
names  both).  What  has  hitherto  been  put  into 
circulation  as  the  Life  of  Wagner  is  fable  con- 
venuej  if  not  worse.  I  confess  my  distrust  of 
every  point  which  rests  solely  on  the  testimony 
of  Wagner  himself.  He  had  not  pride  enough  for 
any  truth  whatever  about  himself;  nobody  was 
less  proud;  he  remained  just  like  Victor  Hugo, 
true  to  himself  even  in  biographical  matters  — 
88 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

he  remained  a  stage-player."  Elsewhere  Nietz 
sche  warns  us  against  the  autobiographies  of 
great  men. 

"His  father  was  a  stage-player  named  Geyer." 
Coming  from  Nietzsche  this  statement  is  not 
surprising,  for  he  had  read  these  memoirs  while 
at  Villa  Triebschen.  Why  then,  it  will  be  asked, 
does  this  fact  not  appear  in  the  first  page  of  the 
autobiography?  Despite  asseverations  to  the 
contrary  we  suspect  that  Bayreuth  edited  not 
wisely  but  too  well.  Others  besides  Nietzsche 
had  seen  the  opening  line  of  the  work:  "I  am 
the  son  of  Ludwig  Geyer."  The  late  Felix  Mottl 
in  the  presence  of  several  well-known  music  critics 
of  New  York  city  declared  in  1904  that  he  had 
read  the  above  statement.  He  also  told  the  same 
story  to  German  journalists.  Mr.  Finck  as  long 
ago  as  1896  informed  the  present  writer  that  at 
Wahnfried  one  could  see  the  portrait  of  Ludwig 
Geyer,  Wagner's  "  step-father,"  and  of  Wag 
ner's  mother,  but  not  a  sign  of  the  real  (or  puta 
tive)  father.  This  statement  we  personally  cor 
roborated.  Now  this  doesn't  prove  that  Richard 
Wagner  was  of  Jewish  descent,  though  there  is 
a  strong  reason  for  believing  that  the  versatile 
Geyer,  painter,  poet,  musician,  and  actor,  may 
have  had  Jewish  blood  in  his  veins.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Wagner's  mother  displayed  more  marked 
Hebraic  lineaments;  her  name  was  Bertz,  as  Mrs. 
Burrell  discovered.  Stranger  still  is  the  fact  that 
Richard  Geyer,  as  he  was  known  at  school,  looks 
more  like  the  Wagners  than  Geyer;  he  resembles 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

his  elder  brother,  a  veritable  Wagner,  much  more 
than  he  does  his  half  (or  whole)  sister,  Cecilia 
Geyer.  So  the  physiognomists  must  make  of 
this  anomaly  what  they  will.  Of  course  the  chief 
point  of  interest  is  Wagner's  chronic  hatred  of  the 
Jews,  and  his  attack  on  the  Jewish  element  in 
music. 

If  the  Geyer  story  be  the  truth,  then  the  music 
of  Wagner,  sensuous,  Oriental,  brilliant,  pom 
pous,  richly  coloured,  is  Jewish,  more  Jewish  than 
the  music  of  Meyerbeer,  Mendelssohn,  or  Gold- 
mark.  But  let  us  see  what  the  original  of  this 
contention  has  to  say  himself  on  the  subject. 

Of  Wagner's  own  opinion  concerning  his  pater 
nity  he  leaves  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
Before  such  frankness  the  most  seasoned  will 
quail.  Sir  William  Davenant  is  said  to  have 
blackened  the  memory  of  his  mother  in  his  not 
very  laudable  endeavour  to  prove  that  he  was  the 
natural  son  of  William  Shakespeare.  Possibly 
that  is  why  he  is  known  to  posterity  as  "Rare 
Sir  William  Davenant."  Perhaps  Wagner,  in 
his  anxiety  to  demonstrate  that  his  father  was 
a  man  of  lively  talents,  hinted  that  his  supposed 
father,  Friedrich  Wagner,  was  too  much  away 
from  home  of  nights  and  that  "even  when  the 
police  official,  his  father,  was  spending  his  even 
ings  at  the  theatre,  the  worthy  actor,  Ludwig 
Geyer,  generally  filled  his  place  in  the  family 
circle,  and  it  seems  had  frequently  to  appease  my 
mother,  who,  rightly  or  wrongly,  complained  of 
her  husband."  This  is  simply  breath-catching. 
90 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

"Seems,  good  mother."  Was  there  ever  such  a 
Hamlet-son  to  such  a  queen-mother?  Geyer 
married  her  and  her  big  brood  after  the  elder 
Wagner  had  gone  to  another  world.  Richard 
was  not  called  Richard  Wagner  till  the  age  of 
fourteen.  He  was  born  May  22,  1813,  in  Leip- 
sic.  The  house  was  once  a  Judengasse,  and  is 
now  the  quarter  of  the  fur  merchants. 

Geyer  did  not  live  long.  He  took  the  liveliest 
interest  in  Richard,  especially  when  he  suspected 
that  the  boy  had  musical  ability.  The  mother 
of  Wagner  came  from  Weissenfels,  and  she  told 
her  son  that  her  parents  had  been  bakers  there; 
later  authorities  say  mill-owners.  There  was  an 
air  of  mystery  surrounding  her  antecedents,  per 
haps  because  of  some  personal  caprice.  She 
would  never  give  the  correct  spelling  of  her 
name,  Perthes,  not  Bertz,  being  then  the  ac 
cepted  form.  A  "Weimar  prince"  had  seen  to 
her  education  at  a  high-class  Leipsic  boarding- 
school.  More  romantics !  That  she  was  a  clever, 
witty,  well-educated  woman  there  is  no  doubt. 
Harassed  by  poverty  and  a  large  family,  she 
contrived  through  all  of  it  to  keep  her  head 
above  water.  Wagner  writes  that  "her  chief 
characteristics  seem  to  have  been  a  keen  sense 
of  humour  and  an  amiable  temper,  so  we  need 
not  suppose  that  it  was  merely  a  sense  of  duty 
toward  the  family  of  a  departed  comrade  that 
afterward  induced  the  admirable  Ludwig  Geyer 
to  enter  into  matrimony  with  her  when  she  was 
no  longer  youthful,  but  rather  that  he  was  im- 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

pelled  to  that  step  by  a  sincere  and  warm  regard 
for  the  widow  of  his  friend."  Wagner  always 
spoke  better  of  Geyer  than  of  his  father  or 
mother. 

The  first  volume  is  in  two  parts.  Part  I,  1813 
to  1842,  is  devoted  to  his  childhood  and  school 
days,  musical  studies,  travels  in  Germany,  first 
marriage,  and  Paris,  1839  to  1842.  Part  II  is 
devoted  to  the  years  in  Dresden,  1842  to  1850, 
and  comprises  descriptions  of  Rienzi,  The  Flying 
Dutchman,  Liszt,  Spontini,  Marschner,  Tann- 
hauser,  Franck,  Schumann,  Semper,  the  archi 
tect;  Gutzkow,  Auerbach,  Lohengrin,  Spohr, 
Gluck,  Heller,  Devrient,  his  mother's  death, 
Bakunin  and  the  May  insurrection,  his  flight  to 
Weimar,  Zurich,  Paris,  Bordeaux,  Geneva,  and 
again  to  Zurich.  The  prose  style  of  the  orig 
inal,  not  of  the  English  translation,  is  free  from 
Wagner's  accustomed  obscurities  and  clogged 
sentences,  which  we  meet  in  his  pretentious  and 
turgid  studies  of  music  and  the  drama.  Doubt 
less  Cosima,  aided  by  Nietzsche,  made  these 
memoirs  presentable,  for  Wagner,  while  a  copious 
writer,  is  absolutely  devoid  of  ear  for  the  finer 
harmonies  of  prose;  indeed,  his  prose  is  only 
one  degree  worse  than  the  doggerel  he  too  often 
calls  poetry. 

His  childhood  was  spent  in  dreams.  He  was 
very  sensitive  to  things  that  terrified,  such  as 
ghosts,  shadows,  and  the  whole  battery  of  Ger 
man  fairy  tales.  He  read  Hoffman's  stories  and 
they  did  him  no  good.  He  composed  tragedies 

,  92 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

in  the  style  of  Hamlet  and  Lear;  he  adored 
Weber  and  Freischiitz;  but  the  major  impres 
sion  of  his  life  was  Beethoven's  Fidelio.  Later 
came  the  symphonies  and  the  string  quartets; 
yet  the  opera  was,  musically  speaking,  Wagner's 
starting-point.  What  will  be  matter  of  surprise 
to  many  is  the  fact  that  Wagner  was  no  middle- 
aged  student  of  music,  as  has  been  generally 
understood.  He  was  always  studying,  only  he 
began  earlier  than  musical  histories  have  told 
us.  He  was  not  a  prodigy;  he  never  half  mas 
tered  the  technique  of  the  pianoforte,  an  instru 
ment  which  he  cursed,  yet  could  never  satis 
factorily  compose  unless  at  the  key-board,  and 
sang  like  a  crow.  He  began  with  Miiller  and 
ended  with  Weinlig  in  theory.  He  had  composed 
a  pianoforte  sonata  by  nineteen.  He  wrote 
songs.  He  longed  to  be  a  composer  of  opera. 
He  was  omnivorous  in  his  reading,  but  passed 
his  school  examinations  with  difficulty  if  at  all. 
In  a  word,  a  lad  of  genius  who  was  determined 
to  seek  such  spiritual  nourishment  as  he  craved 
and  none  other.  No  wonder  his  schoolmasters 
shook  their  heads.  At  the  university  he  indulged 
in  all  the  student  vices.  His  particular  advent 
ures  as  a  gambler,  while  dramatic,  even  thrill 
ing,  sound  a  trifle  too  much  like  French  fiction  to 
be  credible.  Petted  by  his  sisters,  alternately 
spoiled  and  neglected  by  a  capricious  though  well- 
meaning  mother,  Wagner's  home-life  made  up  in 
affection  what  it  lacked  in  discipline.  His  life 
long  he  was  to  feel  the  loss  of  a  father,  who 

.93 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

would  have  shaped  his  conduct  as  well  as  his 
genius. 

His  mother  could  not  endure  the  notion  of  a 
theatrical  career  for  her  son  —  her  dislike  of  the 
theatre  was  well  grounded  —  so  she  allowed  him 
to  become  a  musician.  He  literally  began  con 
ducting  before  he  could  read  a  score.  However, 
the  operas  he  waved  his  wand  over  were  by 
Auber  and  Donizetti,  and  no  doubt  the  youthful 
leader  used  a  piano  partition.  At  Lauchstadt  he 
met  Minna  Planer,  a  pretty,  vivacious  actress. 
Wagner  was  the  musical  director  of  the  Magde 
burg  Theatre  Company,  of  which  Minna  was 
also  a  member.  They  were  both  young;  they 
loved,  and  oddly  enough  it  was  Richard  who 
urged  a  legitimate  union.  The  lady  had  been 
imprudent  so  often  that  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  any  one  would  be  foolish  enough  to  marry 
her.  She  had  a  past,  a  daughter,  Nathalie,  being 
one  of  its  witnesses.  Wagner  knew  this.  He 
tells,  not  without  a  certain  gusto,  the  sordid 
story  of  her  life,  her  early  seduction.  Why  in  the 
name  of  all  that  is  decent  he  should  dwell  upon 
such  details  we  may  only  wonder.  If  it  is  to 
blacken  the  memory  of  an  unhappy  woman  who 
was  his  best,  his  only  friend  through  the  most 
awful  trials,  well  and  good;  base  as  is  the  motive, 
it  is  at  least  understandable.  But  while  this 
aspersion  puts  Cosima  on  a  pedestal  it  lowers 
Wagner,  for  he  confesses  he  took  the  woman  for 
better  or  worse;  that  after  she  ran  away  from 
him  with  a  certain  Dietrich  he  received  her  back; 

94 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

he  accepted  the  illegitimate  child;  he  accepted 
her  doubtful  temper,  her  ignorance,  finally  her 
tippling  and  drug-eating  habits.  At  times  he 
behaved  like  an  angel  of  light.  He  forgave  so 
much  that  you  wonder  that  he  didn't  forgive  all. 
Minna  was  not  a  companion  for  a  man  of  sen 
sitive  nerves,  as  was  Richard.  What  other 
woman  would  have  been?  And  those  critics  who, 
inspired  by  Bayreuth,  attack  the  unfortunate 
actress  should  remember  that  she  it  was  who 
washed  his  linen  in  Paris  during  the  three  dark 
years  from  1839  to  1842;  who  cooked,  slaved, 
and  saved  for  him;  who  stood  with  rock-bottom 
fortitude  his  terrific  outbursts,  his  peevishness, 
his  fickleness. 

It  is  a  risky  business,  this  judging  the  respec 
tive  rights  and  wrongs  of  a  husband  and  wife; 
nevertheless  justice  should  be  done  Minna.  He 
did  not  love  her  long;  yet  such  a  dance  of  death 
did  this  self-absorbed  musician  fiddle  for  his 
weary  spouse  that  one  reads  with  relief  of  her 
death,  not  described  in  these  memoirs.  Goethe, 
the  superb  and  icy  egoist,  as  is  commonly  sup 
posed,  broke  down  entirely  at  the  death  of  his 
wife,  Christiane  Vulpius,  an  uneducated  woman 
of  intemperate  habits,  pretty  but  of  common 
clay.  Kneeling  at  her  bedside  and  seizing  her 
hands  cold  in  death,  this  so-called  impassive  poet 
and  voluptuary  cried:  "Thou  wilt  not  forsake 
me!  No,  no;  thou  must  not  forsake  me! "  And 
Goethe  was  a  greater  poet  than  Wagner  and  a 
greater  man.  But  Wagner  was  only  too  glad  to 

,95 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

be  relieved  of  his  matrimonial  burden.    He  was 
already  the  lover  of  his  friend's  wife. 

Ill 

Perhaps  Cosima  may  enlighten  the  world 
some  day  as  to  the  methods  she  employed  in 
managing  her  hitherto  untamable  spouse.  Past 
fifty,  past  the  storm  and  stress  of  a  life  rich  in 
miseries  and  economical  in  its  distribution  of  fa 
vours,  Wagner  knew  that  he  was  in  safe  harbour 
after  he  became  the  friend  of  the  King.  Cosima 
knew  it  too.  Von  Billow  was  an  exacting  hus 
band.  Ferdinand  Lassalle  has  described  Cosima 
as  a  pedant  in  petticoats,  though  a  true  daughter 
of  Liszt  in  her  brilliancy  and  personal  charm. 
She  saw  that  Von  Billow  would  always  remain  a 
pianist,  a  very  dry,  though  intellectual  artist; 
that  the  future  was  Wagner's.  She  did  not  hesi 
tate  to  sacrifice  all,  her  husband,  her  father,  and 
she  went  off  with  Wagner.  Nietzsche,  who  later 
was  intimate  in  this  circle,  must  there  have 
formed  his  conception  of  supermen  and  super- 
women.  Nothing  counted  but  personal  in 
clination;  Siegmund  and  Sieglinde,  Siegfried  and 
Brunnhilde,  Tristan  and  Isolde  —  each  a  law  to 
himself,  to  herself.  Poor  Liszt  was  shocked  not 
alone  because  of  the  moral  aspect  of  the  case, 
but  because  of  the  unhappiness  brought  upon  his 
favourite  pupil,  Von  Billow;  last  and  principal 
ly,  Cosima  to  remarry  had  to  become  a  Protes 
tant. 

.96 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

Wagner  describes  his  growing  love  for  Co- 
sima.  Once  it  took  the  freakishly  sentimental 
desire  to  lift  her  into  a  wheel-barrow  and  wheel 
her  home.  Hardly  Teutonic  this,  as  Nietzsche 
would  have  said.  (Nietzsche  did  not  come  off 
without  scars  in  his  friendship  for  Cosima.  He, 
so  it  was  asserted  by  competent  authorities, 
loved  her  more  than  he  did  the  music  of  Rich 
ard.)  Minna  was  cognisant  of  the  growing  in 
trigue  between  her  man  and  the  other  woman. 
She  must  have  been  quite  broken  by  this  time, 
for  she  had  gone  through  the  Wesendonck  affair 
and  it  must  be  confessed  had  come  off  with  flying 
colours  in  that  stormy  encounter.  After  the 
Dresden  revolution  Wagner,  who  had  only  manip 
ulated  the  church-bells  and  had  risked  his  friend 
Roeckel's  life  by  sending  him  across  the  line  for 
a  water-ice,  the  day  being  hot,  fled  to  Weimar, 
where  he  enjoyed  for  a  few  days  the  hospitality 
of  Franz  Liszt  and  his  Princess  Sayn- Wittgen 
stein  at  their  house  on  the  hill  overlooking  the 
river  Ilm,  called  the  Altenburg.  Naturally  he 
says  little  of  how  he  repaid  his  hosts  at  a  ban 
quet  given  in  his  honour.  He  abused  all  the 
guests,  got  drunk,  and  was  only  brought  to  his 
senses  when  Liszt  threatened  him  with  expulsion 
if  he  didn't  apologise  to  Von  Billow,  Tausig, 
Cornelius,  and  the  others.  He  knew  Liszt  too 
well  to  hesitate,  and  did  as  he  was  told ;  therefore 
Liszt,  Liszt  who  gave  Lohengrin  its  first  produc 
tion,  who  sent  Wagner  thousands  of  dollars, 
who  furnished  him  musical  ideas,  also  a  devoted 

97 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

spouse,  Cosima,  Liszt  is  shown  in  anything  but 
flattering  colours  in  this  book.  Verily  Wagner 
was  obsessed  by  the  evil  angel  of  truth-telling. 
Like  the  little  child  in  Hans  Andersen's  story, 
he  always  saw  the  king  naked.  And  this, 
whether  we  like  his  ingratitude  or  not,  may 
constitute  in  the  future  the  weightiest  value  to 
his  utterances. 

But,  honest  to  the  point  of  shocking,  he  ex 
hibits  a  clamlike  reticence  in  a  quarter  where  he 
might  have  been  more  expansive.  Not  that  his 
comparative  silence  regarding  his  relations  at 
Zurich  with  the  Wesendoncks  was  actuated  by 
any  awakened  sense  of  chivalry.  No,  his  letters 
reveal  the  reverse.  The  truth  is  he  cut  a  poor 
figure  in  that  ugly  episode.  He  tells  his  story 
as  obliquely  as  he  dare,  but  the  facts  are  against 
him.  There  were  too  many  witnesses  for  him 
to  prevaricate,  and  we  wonder  that  Frau  Cosima 
printed  this  present  story  when  the  Wagner- 
Wesendonck  letters  (and  Wagner's  words)  do  so 
contradict  the  autobiography. 

If  readers  of  My  Life  when  disgusted  by  the 
pettiness  of  the  author  would  only  recollect  that 
this  pigmy  with  the  giant  brain  gave  us  the  sub 
lime  last  act  of  Gotterdammerung  —  as  sub 
lime  as  a  page  from  ^Eschylus  or  an  act  from 
King  Lear;  gave  us  the  Shakespearian  humour, 
fantasy,  and  rich  humanity  of  Die  Meistersinger, 
and,  finally,  the  glowing  love  poem  of  Tristan 
and  Isolde,  then  Wagner  the  sorely  beset  and 
erring  mortal  would  be  forgotten  in  Wagner  the 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

Titan.  We  smile  at  John  Ruskin's  attempt  to 
prove  that  only  a  moral  man  can  produce  great 
art.  Alas !  What  would  he  have  said  of  Richard 
Wagner?  Therefore,  why  should  we  sit  in  judg 
ment  on  the  man?  His  temperament  was  ab 
normal,  his  health  wretched.  He  was  all  in 
tellect  and  emotion,  and  if  in  his  last  years  he 
became  unduly  sentimental  over  the  sufferings 
of  dogs  and  guinea-pigs,  also  became  a  vague 
socialist,  and  indulged  in  some  decidedly  queer 
pranks  during  the  Ludwig  affair,  we  had  better 
set  it  down  to  the  strain  of  his  early  years,  to  his 
age,  as  was  the  Tolstoy  case,  and  to  his  protract 
ed  conflict  for  his  ideals.  And  what  a  glorious 
fighter  he  was !  In  the  deepest  despair  he  would 
rouse  himself  and  begin  anew,  and  this  lasted 
over  thirty  years.  You  forgive  his  childlike 
enjoyment  of  luxury  when  it  did  come,  after 
his  fiftieth  year.  He  was  a  "wicked"  man  like 
Tolstoy  in  his  youth;  both  ended  in  a  vapour 
of  sentimental  humanitarianism,  though  Wagner 
remained  " harder"  —  in  the  Nietzschian  sense. 
We  confess  to  finding  the  second  volume 
—  a  trifle  less  interesting  than  the  first.  It 
ranges  from  1850  to  1861;  the  entire  work  is 
over  nine  hundred  pages,  and  deals  with  the 
Nibelungen  Ring,  Zurich,  Liszt,  Schopenhauer, 
London,  Venice,  the  various  stadia  in  the  prog 
ress  of  Tristan  and  Isolde,  Weimar,  Paris,  and 
the  fiasco  of  Tannhauser,  Vienna,  and  again  Zu 
rich,  Stuttgart,  and  finally  Munich.  He  had  to 
flee  Vienna  because  of  debts,  although  he  in- 

99 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

suited  a  wealthy  Jewish  banker  by  borrowing 
one  thousand  gulden  from  him,  giving  a  banquet 
to  singers  and  musicians,  and  when  the  banker 
visited  him,  calling  down  the  stairs:  "No  dirty 
Jews  are  admitted."  This  phrase  "dirty  Jew" 
was  often  on  Wagner's  tongue.  He  insulted  the 
great  conductor  Herman  Levi  thus.  He  mocked 
Tichhatschek,  the  tenor,  who  " created"  his 
Rienzi,  and  retailed  scandal  about  his  early  idol, 
Wilhelmine  Schroeder-Devrient,  who  was  said  to 
be  fond  of  handsome  young  officers.  Wagner 
spared  no  one.  Karl  Ritter,  whose  mother  did  so 
much  for  him,  giving  him  an  annual  pension ;  Van 
Hornstein,  who  refused  him  at  the  last  a  huge 
sum;  Princess  Metternich,  Due  de  Morny,  Louis 
Napoleon,  all  lent  him  large  sums,  as  did  Otto 
Wesendonck,  yet  he  mentions  them  coldly.  His 
brothers-in-law,  Brockhaus  and  Avenarius,  he 
slights  for  the  same  reason  —  they  refused  him 
money.  To  discover  the  real  Wagner  read  the 
Liszt-Wagner  correspondence.  The  two  men 
stand  revealed,  Liszt,  the  antipodes  of  Wagner, 
noble,  patient,  always  giving,  always  praising 
or  encouraging,  seldom  criticising.  And  it  may 
be  confessed  that  at  this  period  Wagner's  feelings 
toward  Liszt,  as  shown  in  the  letters,  are  edify 
ing.  He  was  not  altogether  spoiled,  else  so  many 
people  wouldn't  have  loved,  have  worshipped 
him.  Adversities,  if  they  strengthened  the  key 
stone  of  his  art,  made  his  temper  unbearable. 
But  no  idiosyncrasy  can  be  summoned  as  an 
apology  for  his  behaviour  in  the  Jessie  Laussot 
.jop 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

affair  at  Bordeaux.  And  he  tells  it  all  so  disin 
terestedly. 

By  temperament  pessimistic,  nevertheless  in 
his  artistic  theories  Wagner  was  an  optimist. 
He  had  begun  as  a  disciple  in  philosophy  of 
Feuerbach,  but  a  copy  of  The  World  as  Will  and 
Representation,  by  Arthur  Schopenhauer,  topsy 
turvied  the  composer,  whose  later  poems  became 
tinged  with  the  world- woe  (Weltschmerz)  of  the 
cynical  sage  of  Frankfort.  This  pessimism  was 
personal  in  Wagner's  case;  it  was  not  so  much 
Weltschmerz  as  Selbstschmerz  (self-pity).  He 
sent  the  poem  of  The  Ring  to  Schopenhauer, 
who  abused  it  heartily  to  his  disciples.  Yet 
Wagner  writes  with  smirking  self-satisfaction 
that  Schopenhauer  had  been  much  impressed. 
How  much  impressed  he  was  we  all  know  now. 
He  pencilled  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  of  Die 
Walkiire,  where  the  stage  direction  is  "quick 
curtain!"  —  "high  time"  (hochste  Zeit).  Scho 
penhauer,  who  admired  the  music  of  Rossini  and 
blew  plaintive  melodies  on  the  flute,  disliked  the 
incest  theme  in  Die  Walkiire,  and  even  denied 
the  composer  any  musical  ability  whatever. 
Possibly  this  same  Schopenhauer,  whose  chief 
work  also  opened  the  eyes  of  Nietzsche,  was  at 
the  close  one  of.  the  causes  of  the  break  between 
Wagner  and  hL  ardent  apostle,  the  author  of  that 
brilliant,  enthusiastic  book,  Richard  Wagner  in 
Bayreuth. 

Nietzsche  had  outgrown  Schopenhauer  when 
the  music  festival  of  1876  inaugurated  the  open- 

101 


THE  REAL  ISOLDE 

ing  of  the  Bayreuth  music  drama.  His  Wagner- 
worship  had  begun  to  wane;  he  saw  his  god 
in  the  full  glare  of  worldly  glory  and  he  noted 
the  feet  of  clay,  noted  that  the  ex-revolutionist 
of  1849  bowed  very  low  to  royalty,  and  also 
realised  that  Wagner  did  not  propose  to  share 
his  throne,  not  even  the  lowest  step,  with  any 
one.  He  left  Bayreuth  thoroughly  disillusionised, 
though  he  joined  the  Wagner  family  at  Sorrento 
the  following  November.  He  published  his 
Thoughts  Out  of  Season,  and  there  were  those 
who  detected  the  tiny  rift  in  the  lute  of  friend 
ship.  Wagner  too  felt  the  coolness,  but  he  wrote 
Nietzsche  a  brief,  cordial  letter.  In  1878  ap 
peared  Human,  All  Too  Human,  and  henceforth 
Bayreuth  was  silent  as  the  tomb  on  the  name  of 
Nietzsche.  The  friends  never  met  again,  and 
when  Parsifal  was  produced  in  1882  at  Bayreuth 
Nietzsche  threw  overboard  his  Wagnerian  bag 
gage  and  forswore  the  ideals  of  his  former  master. 
The  master  had  long  since  thrown  Nietzsche  to 
the  winds.  When  a  disciple  ceased  to  be  useful 
he  was  dropped,  as  were  Von  Billow,  Von  Horn- 
stein,  Ritter,  and  Liszt.  In  Meyerbeer  Wagner 
encountered  metal  of  his  own  kind;  he  could 
never  catch  this  wily  Berlin-born  composer  off 
his  guard.  Hence  his  eloquent  abuse. 


102 


V 

CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 
I 

WHISTLER 

THE  exhibition  of  Whistler's  paintings  and 
pastels  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum  (1910) 
ought  to  dislodge  the  last  cobweb  of  prejudice 
clinging  to  the  Whistler  legend.  Time,  which 
disentangles  all  critical  snarls,  has  allowed  us  to 
place  in  its  true  perspective  the  work  of  this 
American  genius.  He  is  no  longer  a  barbarous 
solitary,  a  ferocious  eccentric,  nor  is  his  orig 
inality  indisputable.  Genius  never  drops  from 
the  skies.  Wagner  we  know  was  a  complex  prod 
uct,  stemming  from  Beethoven,  Weber,  Liszt; 
Chopin,  the  unique  Chopin,  was  firmly  founded 
on  Bach  and  Hummel.  Swinburne,  who  amazed 
our  fathers  with  his  fiery  metres,  had  in  him 
much  of  Sappho  and  Baudelaire.  And  Whistler, 
a  stumbling-block  to  criticism  for  so  many  years, 
was  caught  at  various  periods  in  the  eddies  of 
Courbet  and  Fantin-Latour,  the  Japanese,  and 
Rossetti;  even  such  an  antipodal  talent  as  Alma- 
Tadema's  he  did  not  disdain  to  profit  from. 
The  loan  exhibition,  arranged  with  such  tact, 
tells  us  these  things,  and  Whistler  emerges 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

more  Whistler  than  ever.  A  stylist  like  Poe 
and  Pater,  not  devoid  of  preciosity  and  at  times 
of  mysticism,  he  selected  —  his  art  is  the  very 
efflorescence  of  selection  —  a  narrow  path,  real 
ising  that  his  salvation  lay  in  finesse,  not  viril 
ity;  in  languor,  not  ecstasy.  Within  his  re 
stricted  compass  he  contrived  to  beat  out  a 
highly  individual  style.  He  is  Whistler  as  Cho 
pin  is  Chopin  and  Poe  Poe.  The  names  of  this 
musician  and  of  this  poet  are  not  dragged  in 
haphazard.  With  both  the  painter  had  singu 
lar  affinities.  And  like  Renan,  he  soon  outgrew 
the  "mania  of  certitude." 

It  is  a  commonplace  in  the  history  of  criti 
cism  that  a  great  man  is  unappreciated  during 
his  epoch;  yes,  too  often  unappreciated,  but  not 
always  unperceived.  Sensible  strictures  were 
passed  on  the  music-dramas  of  Wagner,  stric 
tures  that  to-day  are  as  valid  as  when  they  were 
first  published.  Manet  was  badly  treated  by  his 
contemporaries,  yet  what  was  said  of  his  de 
ficiencies  still  holds  good.  Whistler,  personally 
a  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  at  night,  made 
confusion  worse  confounded  by  his  antics,  his 
butterfly  affectations  and  waspish  vanity.  (Oh, 
if  Wagner  hadn't  written  those  terrifying  books 
of  his  to  prove  that  he  was  Wagner,  when  the 
first  bar  of  the  introduction  to  Tristan  and 
Isolde  stamped  him  as  a  god  among  composers!) 
Whistler,  like  Baudelaire,  and  doubtless  pat 
terning  after  the  poet  of  spleen  and  ideal,  fash 
ioned  his  own  legend.  He  was  not  only  a  genius 
104 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

but  he  acted  like  one;  thus  would  the  world  bet 
ter  understand  him.  If  he  had  retreated  to  his 
ivory  tower  as  did  De  Vigny,  we  might  not  have 
found  him  out  until  after  his  death.  This  was 
the  case  with  Rembrandt.  "I'll  show  you!" 
said  James,  and  he  did  show  them.  Knowing 
that  in  London  he  would  shine  by  sheer  com 
parison,  he  left  Paris,  where  he  was  but  Whis 
tler,  in  such  company  as  Fantin,  Manet,  Degas, 
Courbet.  He  had  his  admirers  in  England,  and 
they  fought  as  the  Irish  at  Fontenoy  in  his  be 
half.  He  had  his  enemies,  and  they  put  their 
fingers  on  his  sore  spots  and  he  winced.  But 
they,  too,  advertised  him.  The  mystery  is  not 
that  Ruskin  failed  to  understand  Whistler  but 
that  Whistler  was  so  lacking  in  humour  as  to 
fight  Ruskin  with  such  a  weapon  as  The  Falling 
Rocket;  Ruskin,  who  had  missed  Velasquez  and 
how  many  masters,  what  could  he  say  before 
such  a  picture?  Let  us  not  mince  words.  Time 
is  not  treating  the  Whistler  canvases  with  a  gen 
tle  touch;  the  "  tone  of  time"  is  not  for  his  sur 
faces.  More  disquieting  still  is  the  fact  that  he 
does  not  seem  so  wonderful  as  he  did  two  decades 
ago.  Some  of  his  works  are  hopelessly  outmoded. 
Nor  is  this  because  better  acquaintance  has  bred 
a  certain  sense  of  satiety.  On  the  contrary,  what 
is  beautiful  in  Whistler  will  remain  beautiful 
until  the  last  patch  of  paint  has  peeled  off  the 
canvas.  In  a  word,  we  mean  that  all  Whistler 
is  not  great.  He  was  ever  experimenting  and  he 
was  often  uneven. 

105 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

The  collection  lacked  the  three  master- works: 
the  portraits  of  his  mother,  of  Carlyle,  of  Miss 
Alexander.  Yet  it  was  very  satisfying,  as  it  gave 
us  a  glimpse  at  the  various  stages  of  his  develop 
ment.  How  normal  that  development  was!  A 
romantic  at  the  start,  he  played  with  the  formula 
of  realism.  His  Blue  Wave  is  decorative  if  com 
pared  with  Courbet's.  The  Japanese  motive 
was  then  sounded.  Paris  at  one  time  was  Japan 
ese  mad,  thanks  to  De  Goncourt.  Whistler  saw 
the  possibilities  of  this  new  art  and  he  absorbed 
it  as  Wagner  absorbed  Liszt  and  Berlioz.  It 
added  another  note  in  the  gamut  of  the  paint 
er's  palette.  Symmetry  was  not  altogether  sup 
planted  by  asymmetry,  but  the  slight  perpetual 
surprise  and  deviation  from  the  normal  line  in 
troduced  a  strange  and  delicious  dissonance  in 
the  harmonies  of  a  man  for  whom  music  was 
the  arch  type  of  the  arts.  He  saw  the  rhythmic 
irregularities  of  the  Japanese,  saw  their  "  going  to 
nature  in  a  frank,  gipsylike  manner,"  above  all 
realised  their  harmonic  sense,  and  grafted  all 
upon  Western  art,  making  it  richer,  bolder,  more 
novel.  Withal  he  remained  Whistler. 

How  Whistlerian  we  may  see  in  his  portraits 
and  nocturnes.  As  through  a  palimpsest  there 
struggle  to  light  several  texts,  so  in  the  Whistler 
pictures  we  can  say:  Here  he  went  to  Japan. 
There  he  knew  Rossetti  (the  White  Girl). 
Here  and  there  he  saw  through  the  eyes  of 
Velasquez.  But  he  was  invincibly  Whistler  in 
spirit.  And  this  is  the  key-note  of  him.  He  is 
106 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

psychic.  He  paints  the  spiritual  emanations  of 
a  personality.  He  would  have  jested  if  any  one 
had  said  that  to  him,  for  like  all  great  artists  he 
was  hugely  concerned  with  the  mastery  of  his 
material.  Yet  who  ever  plunged  deeper  (among 
modern  masters,  Carriere  perhaps  excepted)  into 
the  enigmatic  well-pit,  into  the  core  of  personal 
ity?  Those  transcripts  of  souls,  of  Lady  Archi 
bald  Campbell,  of  Sarasate,  of  Rosa  Corder,  of 
the  Lady  Sophie  of  Soho,  of  Francis  Leyland 
(for  that  portrait  of  Florence  Leyland  is  an 
apparition),  of  Miss  Alexander,  finally  of  his 
mother  (we  believe  that  the  Carlyle  just  misses 
fire  as  a  psychological  document  despite  the  mag 
nificent  painting),  are  something  more  than  har 
monies,  arrangements,  and  symphonies;  as  the 
scherzos  and  ballades,  impromptus  and  etudes  of 
Chopin  are  more  than  decorative  titles.  The 
decorative  side  of  Whistler's  gifts  has  in  the  end 
been  over-emphasised.  He  feared  the  literary 
pitfall  as  Chopin  feared  the  sentimental.  Their 
escape  was  but  a  sign  that  both  men  were  more 
preoccupied  with  subject  matter  than  they  would 
acknowledge.  Both  were  capable  of  pyro tech 
nical  flights  into  the  azure,  where  they  trilled  in 
company  with  the  morning  stars;  Whistler  like 
Chopin  could  toss  aloft  a  tone  and  spin  from  it 
variations  that  dazzled.  But  then  he  was  not 
the  greater  Whistler  any  more  than  the  Pole  was 
the  greater  Chopin  when  he  wrote  his  variations 
on  the  themes  of  other  composers. 
Whistler  is  not  " literary";  he  is  a  poet,  and  a 
107 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

poet  as  mysterious  and  intangible  as  Poe.  The 
psychology  of  his  sitters  he  sought,  and  then 
having  seized  the  salient  trait,  he  placed  the  por 
trait  in  a  penumbra  at  once  mystic  and  evoca 
tive.  It  was  as  if  he  wished  to  hide  their  secret. 
We  know  as  we  never  knew  before  the  virtuoso 
of  Pampeluna,  Pablo  de  Sarasate,  as  he  fingers 
his  fiddle-strings  and  with  his  transverse  bow 
makes  an  unforgettable  decorative  fulcrum  for 
the  composition.  Accepting  Whistler's  word 
literally,  we  are  looking  at  the  Spaniard  as  he 
comes  down  stage,  his  eyes,  his  white  shirt,  his 
swarthy  face  so  many  notes  in  the  colour  scheme; 
nevertheless,  spiritual  overtones  are  sounded, 
and  in  the  silver  silences  the  soul  of  the  violinist 
is  singing.  There  is  muted  music  in  many  of  the 
canvases;  not  without  reason  did  Whistler  search 
for  analogies  to  music.  He  was  a  profound  har 
monist,  one  who  at  the  last  cared  little  for  the 
pattern;  when  younger  the  pattern  curiously 
intrigued  him.  The  Music  Room  —  which  looks 
old-fashioned  and  mid- Victorian  in  its  sharp 
definitions  —  the  Golden  Screen,  Lange  Leizen, 
these  are  excursions  into  the  rare  country  of 
porcelain  and  linear  falsifications.  Virtuosity 
rules,  humanity  is  all  but  excluded.  The  rather 
opaque  paint  of  The  White  Girl  is  not  very  se 
ductive  (white  against  white  is  no  longer  a  mira 
cle;  besides,  some  of  his  admirers  had  never  seen 
Velasquez).  To  call  the  picture  a  symphony  was 
pretty.  Whistler  did  not  borrow  the  word  from 
the  critic  Mantz  but  from  a  poem  by  his  friend 
108 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

Theophile  Gautier,  Symphonic  en  Blanc-Major, 
which  appeared  in  Emaux  et  Camees  (1852). 
The  three  girls  in  white  are  tool  suggestive  of 
Albert  Moore,  are  thin  and  unreal.  The  senti 
ment  in  the  Little  White  Girl  is  not  only  Ros- 
settian,  but  the  pose,  hair,  and  forms  of  the  head 
are  also  his.  A  picture  of  exceeding  charm. 

There  is  more  character  divination  in  the  Rosa 
Corder,  which  is  as  aristocratic  as  the  art  of  the 
aristocratic  Whistler.  She  is  not  the  dear  Lady 
Disdain  who  looks  over  her  shoulder  in  the  por 
trait  of  Lady  Archibald  Campbell;  yet  what  a 
proud  profile,  what  superb  placing  of  the  figure! 
How  Whistler  sets  echoing  the  browns  and 
blacks!  A  masterpiece,  which  ought  to  be  re- 
christened  Noli  me  Tangere.  Obviously  the 
Little  Lady  of  Soho  was  the  result  of  a  visit  to 
the  Monna  Lisa.  The  sweetly  folded  hands,  the 
pose  of  one  who  listens  to  an  invisible  presence, 
and  with  the  nuance  of  a  smile  exquisitely  ex 
pressed  —  all  this  and  a  nameless  aura  of  mem 
ories  tell  us  that  Whistler,  consciously  or  un 
consciously,  was  affected  by  the  great  Italian  at 
the  Louvre.  We  cannot  admire  much  his  male 
portraits.  Whistler's  was  not  a  masculine  genius. 
The  salt  of  sex  is  missing.  His  Blacksmith  is  a 
poseur.  There  is  nothing  but  papier  mache  in 
those  muscles,  and  the  countenance  is  operati- 
cally  fierce.  We  never  hear  the  fundamental 
basses  of  Velasquez,  Holbein,  Rembrandt.  Nor 
need  we  miss  them.  There  are  crepuscular  com 
pensations.  And  for  his  lack  of  substance  (not 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

overlooked  by  his  early  critics)  have  we  not  the 
subtlest  play  of  harmonies  since  Velasquez?  His 
lyric,  vaporous  creatures  are  of  the  same  stuff  as 
the  Lenore,  Ligeia,  and  Annabel  of  Poe;  wraith- 
like,  they  belong  to  a  No-Man's  Land.  But 
Whistler  does  not  sound  the  morbid  note  of  Poe. 
He  is  sane,  and  his  strangeness  is  never  bizarre. 
He  is  primarily  concerned  with  essences.  In 
the  true  sense  he  is  the  delineator  of  the  moral 
nature.  .With  a  veiled  intensity  that  is  abso 
lutely  magnetic  in  its  power  he  adumbrates  the 
moral  temperament  of  his  model.  Doubt  this 
and  you  doubt  the  truth  that  irradiates  from 
the  portrait  of  Comte  Robert  Montesquiou  de 
Fezenzac. 

Those  Tanagra-like  female  figures  in  the  pas 
tels  are  for  many  the  chief  attraction.  Colour 
notes,  they  proclaim  the  master  of  values.  Here 
is  the  transfiguration  of  the  real,  the  transposi 
tion  of  earth  and  sky  and  the  eternal  feminine 
into  the  most  evanescent  terms  of  art.  What 
simplifications!  What  fluidity!  No  hint  of  the 
effort  to  conceal  the  effort  of  an  effortless  art  — 
occasionally  felt  in  the  larger  compositions,  de 
spite  Whistler's  famous  boast.  Here  he  is  im 
pressionist,  not,  like  Monet,  juxtaposing  tones, 
but  playing  diaphanous  variations  on  a  single 
tone  in  artful  loops  —  Velasquez  is  not  subtler 
in  his  modulations.  George  Moore's  theory, 
that  if  the  American  artist  had  been  physically 
a  bigger  man  he  might  have  painted  master 
pieces  like  the  Spaniard,  gives  us  a  shock.  Then 
no 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

we  should  have  lost  the  mystic  chord,  and  that 
absent  the  less  Whistler  he.  And  at  the  risk  of 
being  disloyal  to  his  paintings,  let  us  confess  to 
our  belief  that  the  real  Whistler  is  the  magician 
of  the  etchings  and  lithographs.  With  Rem 
brandt  and  Meryon  he  makes  one  of  the  glorious 
trinity  of  visionaries. 

n 

ARTHUR  B.   DAVIES 
A  PAINTER-VISIONARY 

As  painter  Arthur  B.  Davies  is  a  realist, 
though  a  mystic  in  temperament.  The  con 
junction  is  not  rare  even  in  this  derided  land  of 
dollars.  Now  your  true  mystic  abhors  the  vague ; 
with  crystalline  clearness  his  vision  embraces  the 
minute  and  magnificent  things  of  the  world  about 
him.  And  equally  real  is  the  life  of  the  spirit. 
A  very  wrong  notion  it  is  that  the  mystical  man, 
let  him  be  artist,  priest,  statesman,  or  poet,  pos 
sesses  a  rambling  intellect  or  stammers  enigmas 
or  deals  in  the  minor  black  arts.  The  mystic  is 
eminently  practical.  Clairvoyant  in  spiritual 
matters,  the  very  intensity  of  his  inward  vision 
when  applied  to  mundane  affairs  enables  him  to 
solve  problems  which  puzzle  practical  persons. 
All  men  of  action  are  dreamers.  Little  need  to 
offer  examples.  Saint  Teresa,  a  mystic  of  fiery 
imagination,  was  an  astounding  organiser.  Many 
other  names  come  to  the  memory. 
in 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

Davies  is  a  man  for  whom  the  invisible  world 
exists  —  a  world  which  flows  harshly  or  rages 
serenely  about  us,  soundless,  pervasive,  puissant 
as  magnetic  waves  that  beat  upon  the  shores  of 
an  electric  ocean.  But  endowed  with  acute 
organs  of  observation  and  a  master  of  technique 
he  is  enabled  to  record  upon  canvas  his  dream  of 
the  visible  and  invisible.  That  is  why  we  call 
him  both  realist  and  mystic.  He  is  no  purveyor 
of  fuliginous  incantations,  of  shadowy  night 
mares  and  esoteric  hysteria.  A  primitive,  he 
sides  neither  with  Blake  nor  Botticelli,  admiring 
both.  He  has  remote  affinities  with  some  of  the 
English  Pre-Raphaelites,  but  at  the  very  point 
where  their  system  breaks  down,  where  their 
vision  becomes  schematic  and  not  vital,  Davies 
has  passed  on.  He  is  often  elliptical  in  his 
themes,  but  never  obscure.  His  ideas  may  be 
philosophical,  but  they  are  emotionally  set  forth. 
A  Romantic,  he  never  loses  view  of  the  signifi 
cant.  The  commonplace  is  charged  with  mir 
acles  for  him.  You  return  to  his  pictures  not 
alone  for  any  lurking  messages  but  for  their 
magic  beauty;  they  are  at  once  a  gracious  pat 
tern  and  a  noble  symbol. 

The  mental  processes  of  an  artist  at  work,  no 
matter  if  tracked  down  by  himself,  always  con 
tain  an  incommensurable  quality.  With  an  idea 
an  artist  begins  to  weave  his  arabesques;  it  is 
the  validity  or  the  strength  of  that  idea  which 
conditions  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  pictorial  com 
position.  Davies  starts  with  a  well-defined  idea. 
112 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

He  never  improvises  on  canvas.  The  aspect  of 
a  scene,  say  in  California,  appeals  to  him,  not 
only  for  its  suggestion  of  space  composition  — 
in  which  element  of  his  art  he  is  a  master  —  but 
for  some  idea  which  we  may  call  mystic.  From 
his  functional  line  —  and  what  a  virile  white  line 
it  is!  —  to  the  last  spot  of  colour,  he  develops  his 
subject  like  a  musician  building  up  a  symphony. 
Yet  there  is  in  all  remarkable  art  some  spot 
where  the  creative  process  seems  to  focus  more 
fiercely.  It  may  be  in  the  rhythmic  flow  of  the 
sky-line  with  cloudshine  overhead;  it  may  be 
in  the  values  of  movement  as  expressed  by  the 
indolent  gait  of  a  woman,  or  a  conflict  or  an  out 
cry  of  tones.  Subject  doesn't  much  matter:  the 
painter's  genius  is  not  always  spilt  in  illustration. 
Three  passionate  scratches  of  a  Rodin  sketch  or 
the  flight  of  exotic  birds  in  a  Japanese  print 
sometimes  tell  us  more  of  the  artist's  soul  than 
would  an  entire  museum.  So  we  discover  in  the 
Davies  pictures  those  dissonances  of  form,  feeling, 
colour,  which  leap  like  flame  to  the  eyes.  His 
romanticism  is  less  the  choice  of  an  obvious  situ 
ation  or  landscape  than  it  is  his  ingrained  manner 
of  considering  the  bright  appearances  of  life  as  a 
symbol;  but  this  symbolism  must  be  interpreted 
in  terms  of  paint.  His  world  is  all  out  of  doors, 
clear,  smiling,  sinister,  prophetic,  but  nature  ever. 
Sheer  fantasy,  and  perhaps  a  touch  of  the  per 
verse,  forces  him  at  times  to  twist  his  patterns, 
and  he  loves  to  introduce  into  his  landscapes 
gentle  unicorns  and  other  fabulous  beasts,  as  did 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

Arnold  Boecklin,  or,  earlier,  Pier  di  Cosimo 
(Piero  di  Lorenzo),  the  gay  inventor  of  Floren 
tine  masques  and  the  master  of  Andrea  del 
Sarto.  Davies  admires  Piero  for  his  animated 
humour  and  for  his  slight  deflection  from  the 
normal. 

To  set  the  American  painter  speaking  of  Bot 
ticelli  is  to  discover  in  his  sincere  utterances 
what  would  be  considered  heresy.  For  instance, 
he  is  entirely  with  Bernhard  Berenson  when  that 
writer  declared  that  Botticelli  is  the  greatest 
artist  of  lineal  design  that  Europe  has  ever  had. 
Educated  here  in  the  technical  requirements  of 
his  art,  Davies  visited  Europe  only  for  spiritual 
nourishment.  He  is  not  the  product  of  the 
schools,  and  while  the  academic  artists  may  ques 
tion  his  power  he  is  suspiciously  regarded  by  the 
younger  men,  who  are  now  all  for  realisation. 
Nevertheless,  you  may  note  that  Davies  has  not 
neglected  manual  dexterity.  His  studies  of  the 
nude  display  a  mastery  of  tactile  values  and  of 
the  values  of  movement  that  are  astonishing. 
Seldom  does  he  carry  a  figure  as  far  in  oils  as 
in  black  and  white.  Is  it  his  subject  matter 
that  puzzles  and  offends?  Hardly.  There  are 
Boecklin  the  Swiss,  Franz  Von  Stuck  of  Munich, 
Max  Klinger  in  his  etchings,  Gustave  Moreau 
—  these  artists  dead  and  alive  painted  and 
etched  more  fantastic  scenes  with  satyrs  and 
mermaids,  centaurs  and  Daughters  of  the  Devil, 
than  Davies  could  accomplish  in  a  lifetime. 
No  one  disputes  their  technical  facility.  But 
1 1.4 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

Davies  is  different.  His  abundant  gifts  of  draw 
ing,  colouring,  designing,  while  they  stamp  him 
as  the  artist  born  as  well  as  trained,  are  at 
the  service  of  a  potent  imagination,  an  individ 
ual  imagination.  One  does  not  hesitate  to  ad 
judge  him  the  most  original  of  American  painters 
and  the  peer  of  those  living  European  artists  who 
are  dominated  by  ideas  and  not  by  the  brush. 
Imagination,  then,  is  the  master  trait  of  Arthur 
B.  Davies.  Let  us  see  to  what  use  he  puts  it. 
First  as  to  his  artistic  ancestry.  We  have 
called  him  a  Primitive  for  want  of  a  more  suit 
able  phrase.  He  has  retained  much  of  the  na 
ivete  of  the  Primitives,  something  wellnigh  im 
possible  in  this  age  of  inartistic  conventional 
ism.  That  childlike  delight  in  the  presence  of 
nature  and  of  children  which  we  are  pleased  to 
credit  to  the  early  Italian  painters  only  is  an 
other  trait  of  his.  He  has  the  " innocence  of  the 
eye,"  though  his  formulas  often  resemble  those  of 
the  Florentines.  But  to  slight  one's  age  is  im 
possible.  Davies  belongs  to  his  century;  fur 
thermore  he  is  an  American.  The  escape  which 
art  offers  he  presents  in  individual  symbols. 
Arcady  with  sleepy  damosels  as  seen  in  the  dark 
glass  of  Burne- Jones's  wizardry  is  not  shown  by 
Davies;  it  is  with  the  vital  impulses  of  nature 
that  he  is  concerned.  His  Californian  land 
scapes  proclaim  the  artist  of  the  New  World,  not 
the  dreamer  of  the  Old  born  out  of  his  day.  His 
handling  recalls  certain  traditions  of  Florence. 
He  may  be  entitled  archaic.  What  precisely  is 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

an  archaic  painter?  Mr.  Berenson  answers  the 
question:  "For  no  art  can  hope  to  become 
classic  that  has  not  been  archaic  first.  The  dis 
tinction  between  archaistic  imitation  and  archaic 
reconstruction,  simple  as  it  is,  must  be  clearly 
borne  in  mind.  An  art  that  is  merely  adopting 
the  ready-made  models  handed  down  from  an 
earlier  time  is  archaistic,  while  an  art  that  is  go 
ing  through  the  process  of  learning  to  recon 
struct  the  figures  and  discover  the  attitudes  re 
quired  for  the  presentation  of  tactile  values  and 
movement  is  archaic.  On  the  other  hand,  an 
art  that  has  completed  the  process  is  classic. 
...  A  painter  still  among  us,  Degas,  may  boast 
of  being  archaic." 

Davies  is  archaic.  His  art  is  a  "becoming" 
and  not  frozen  into  a  rigid  symbolism.  He  is  an 
admirer  of  Degas,  and  he  places  Cezanne  above 
Monet  for  the  significance  of  his  landscapes,  just 
as  he  recognises  the  power  of  his  nudes.  And 
after  all  the  nude  is  the  touchstone.  With  Botti 
celli  the  passion  for  presenting  movement- values 
closed  his  eyes  to  many  other  fascinating  pos 
sibilities.  Blake's  swirling  lines  are  an  abstract  of 
the  idea  of  form ;  and  that  ceaseless  experimenter 
Edgar  Degas  has  arrived  almost  to  the  disintegra 
tion  of  movement  that  we  see  in  the  Rodin 
sketches.  Davies  severely  practises  elimination 
of  non-essentials.  He  completes  but  never  fin 
ishes  a  picture,  using  the  word  in  its  ordinary 
connotation.  His  themes  overflow  their  frames, 
and  like  some  poetry  the  memory  is  full  of  their 
116 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

spiritual  repercussions  and  overtones.  Tech 
nically  speaking,  he  paints  with  great  directness. 
Those  who  believe  his  work  to  be  the  outcome  of 
laborious  " cookery"  and  a  pasticcio  of  many 
styles  would  be  surprised  to  know  with  what 
clarity  he  plots  in  advance  his  pictures,  with  what 
boldness  and  fire  he  attacks  them,  in  what  a  fury 
of  execution  he  terminates  them.  Yes,  those 
majestic,  sweeping  landscapes  with  luminous 
washes  of  sun  and  cloud,  trees  that  loom  up 
grave  and  giantlike  to  the  sky,  those  long-limbed 
nudes  with  mystical  gaze  and  strange  gestures, 
are  all  planned  largely,  are  the  result  of  much 
pondering.  Davies  creates  beauty.  Sometimes 
he  nods  —  all  imaginative  souls  do  —  though  he 
nods  less  often  than  one  would  think  if  his  fec 
und  invention  and  versatility  be  considered; 
that  he  has  not  yet  fully  realised  himself,  he 
knows.  The  dreamer  and  painter  wage  daily  a 
conflict.  But  he  is  slowly  achieving  a  unity  of 
matter  and  manner. 

His  landscapes  are  not  mineral  or  metallic 
like  the  airless  backgrounds  of  Gustave  Moreau; 
they  exist  in  the  West.  California  is  Davies's 
favourite  region.  He  gives  us  the  living  pano 
rama  of  glorious  California.  He  has  discovered 
the  soul  of  California.  Men  have  been  painting 
there  for  a  lifetime  and  they  have  seen  her  beau 
ties  through  the  eyes  of  the  Barbizon  tradition. 
Not  so  Davies.  He  shows  some  valleys  from  a 
pinnacle,  valleys  upon  which  the  hosts  of  heaven 
and  hell  could  war,  a  carpeted  plain  for  Armaged- 
117 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

don.  His  interpretation  of  what  he  sees  springs 
spontaneously.  A  woman's  figure  points  earth 
ward  or  crooks  a  beckoning  finger  as  if  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  men  were  invited  to  enjoy  the 
fulness  and  plenty  of  the  earth.  No  hint  here 
of  the  scene-painter's  California.  And  on  the 
borders  of  what  exquisite  and  mysterious  seas 
does  Davies  conduct  us.  The  limpidity  of  his 
lakes,  the  hieratic  awe  he  infuses  in  the  enlacing 
attitudes  and  gestures  of  the  anonymous  groups 
in  his  foregrounds!  It  is  not  paradise,  for  his 
earth  is  real;  these  women  whose  eyes  are  as 
subtle  as  Da  Vinci's,  whose  limbs  are  as  fluent 
and  lean  as  Botticelli's,  whose  hair  is  blown  upon 
by  strange  airs  —  these  women  may  claim  Davies 
as  their  artistic  progenitor.  And  how  strong  is 
the  salt  and  savour  of  sex  in  all  his  compositions ! 
No  mere  arabesques  are  his  creatures.  The  viril 
ity  of  Davies  is  unmistakable,  but  it  never  takes 
the  questionable  grimace  of  a  conventional  vo 
luptuousness,  nor  has  it  the  suggestion  of  de 
cadent  paganism.  It  is  clear  and  sweet,  this 
conception  of  sex.  When  he  clothes  his  people 
in  modern  garb  they  are  quite  as  vital  —  that 
is,  if  anything  draped  is  ever  as  thrilling  as  the 
nude. 

And  that  Harlem  Bridge  picture.  It  is  not  a 
set  landscape,  but  an  interpretation  of  a  mood, 
the  fusing  of  Davies's  nocturnal  vision  and  the 
actual  forms  and  facts  of  the  vicinity.  How 
those  children  interest.  The  Davies  children 
are  real,  but  seen  through  the  prism  of  a  mystic. 
118 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

Look  at  his  Sea  Wind  and  Sea.  Or  his  mighty 
Forest  with  its  maenads.  He  is  filled  with  the 
earth  spirit.  Hemmed  in  by  thousands  of  ques 
tions,  dumb  yet  eloquent,  this  poet-mystic  has 
no  need  to  summon  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 
His  very  existence,  the  earth  beneath  his  feet, 
the  azure  above  him,  are  miracles.  We  walk 
with  the  " tender  and  growing  night"  in  the 
symbol-land  of  Davies.  Nature  possesses  him 
not  so  much  for  her  lovely  and  enticing  curves  — 
and  those  he  has  not  failed  to  praise  —  as  for 
her  deathless  interrogations.  He  portrays  the 
salient  characteristics  of  the  landscape,  but  in  its 
general  composition  he  searches  for  its  universal 
import.  It  is  the  key-note,  the  releasing  answer 
of  the  Davies  art;  in  tune  with  the  universal  is 
only  phrasing  a  very  old  truth.  To  achieve  this 
harmony,  to  compass  the  larger  rhythms,  our 
painter  has  thrown  overboard  much  ballast. 
He  has  avoided  the  genre  picture,  the  obviously 
dramatic  anecdote,  the  pretty,  shallow  land 
scape  and  decoration  for  the  sake  of  decoration 
and  the  banal  rhetoric  of  the  flesh.  For  motive 
he  has  gone  to  myth.  But  what  myth?  What 
countries  have  furnished  the  myths  of  Davies? 
We  believe  that  his  myths  are  his  own,  though  he 
reads  the  poets,  and  in  Home's  Orion  —  to  give 
one  example  —  he  found  inspiration  for  a  hunt 
ing-scene,  one  is  tempted  to  say  the  hunting- 
scene,  so  universal  is  its  application.  The  hunts 
men  are  indeed  up  in  this  novel  America.  As  a 
space  composer  Davies  produces  in  us  the  sensa- 
119 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

tion  of  a  "  happy  liberation."  There  is  hugeness 
without  emptiness  on  his  mountain  tops  and 
under  his  monster  trees.  Unless  we  are  greatly 
mistaken  he  has  all  the  qualifications  for  a  mural 
decorator  on  an  epical  scale. 

But  he  prefers  his  myths,  his  panels  covered 
with  radiant  creatures,  unclothed  and  in  their 
right  mind,  moving  in  processional  rhythms  to 
some  unknown  goal.  Nor  do  we  wish  to  know 
this  goal.  Great  art  is  an  instant  arrested  in 
eternity.  These  men  and  women  are  enigmatic, 
their  secret  in  the  skies.  One  woman  of  noble 
contour  walks  as  in  a  dream  through  a  delicious 
landscape.  (A  Measure  of  Dreams,  now  hang 
ing  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum.)  She  has  come 
from  a  dream  and  is  crossing  the  bridge  of  transi 
tion;  soon  she  shall  be  enveloped  in  the  splen 
dours  and  terrors  of  a  new  dream.  She  is  ever  in 
motion.  Is  she  the  ideal  that  haunts  the  artist 
soul?  We  have  the  sense  of  something  vanish 
ing,  like  music  overheard  in  sleep,  or  of  a  beauti 
ful  mournful  face  that  melts  into  the  chambers 
of  your  brain,  elusive  yet  more  real  than  the 
noises  of  the  naked  day.  Such  pictures  as  these 
translate  into  paint  Mallarme's  "silent  thunder 
afloat  in  the  leaves."  The  uneven  silhouette  of 
a  mountain  top,  the  incandescent  glow  of  light, 
a  light  in  which  human  forms  are  decomposed, 
yet  endure  and  weave  the  measures  of  some  an 
tique  dance,  a  country  out  of  time  but  not  of 
space  —  these  luscious  and  sonorous  landscapes 
fill  us  with  wonder  at  their  beauty. 
120 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

Davies  by  reason  of  his  imaginative  tempera 
ment  can  sound  the  notes  of  the  profound,  of  the 
sublime.  Indeed,  he  is  too  much  given  to  the 
apocalyptic.  Like  Maeterlinck  he  can  evoke  a 
nameless  fear  oppressing  vast  multitudes.  Nor 
is  Davies  so  breath-taking,  as  if  in  a  cell  without 
windows  or  doors,  as  was  the  early  Maeter 
linck.  He  knows  the  secret  of  "life-enhancing" 
values.  There  is  a  panel  which  was  covered  with 
humans  expecting  some  mighty  visitation,  some 
spiritual  or  cosmic  upheaval.  The  trees  bend 
helplessly  before  the  invisible  wrath  and  iron 
wind  of  destiny.  Horror  is  exhaled  from  the  can 
vas,  a  mystic  fear  that  crisps  the  nerves.  Yet 
unintelligible  symbols  are  not  employed.  A  key 
is  seldom  needed  for  these  pictures;  on  the  con 
trary,  their  titles  too  often  confuse.  We  saw 
the  designs  for  his  exhibited  but  unfinished  work, 
The  Girdle  of  Ares  (which  is  literally  Greek),  and 
were  stirred  by  the  writhing  Titans,  with  their 
Angelesque  vigour  of  line  and  movement. 

One  of  the  rivals  to  A  Measure  of  Dreams  is 
the  large,  symbolic  picture  Maya,  Mirror  of 
Illusions.  The  ten  elect  virgins  with  mauve 
dappling  their  nude  backs  and  thighs  gaze  wist 
fully  into  the  mirror  of  Maya;  Maya,  the  great 
mother  of  illusions.  The  landscape  might  serve 
for  D'Annunzio's  novel,  Virgin  of  the  Rocks; 
we  are  content  to  suggest  it  stenographically. 
The  colouring  is  rather  pallid,  the  mood  chilly, 
but  as  ice  burns,  so  is  there  spiritual  heat  in  this 
enraptured  parable.  The  only  masters  we  may 

121 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

compare  it  to  are  Botticelli  —  the  women  make 
a  sweet  Botticellian  loop  —  or  to  Edward  Burne- 
Jones's  Mirror  of  Venus.  Yet  it  does  not  pro 
ceed  from  the  Primavera,  nor  has  it  the  rich, 
smoky  enchantment  of  the  Burne- Jones.  What 
does  it  signify?  Isn't  the  title  expressive  enough? 
Maya  —  Illusion !  Of  all  earthly  illusions,  is 
there  any  other  comparable  to  woman  —  even 
when  she  boasts  mauve  reflects?  The  mirror 
may  be  the  mirror  of  matrimony!  But  hush! 
These  are  fables  for  the  disillusionised  middle- 
aged.  Crescendo  shows  seven  girls  (seven,  the 
mystic  number;  seven,  the  number  of  tones 
in  the  scale),  and  the  crescendo  is  unmistak 
able. 

The  best  way  to  approach  the  art  of  Davies 
is  with  an  open  mind.  Like  what  you  like, 
dislike  what  you  dislike.  One  man's  paint  may 
be  another's  poison.  If  a  figure  seems  backed 
like  a  whale,  weasel,  or  camel,  then  it  is  —  for 
you;  but  don't  expect  your  neighbour  to  follow 
your  suit.  He  may  see  shrewder  into  the  clear- 
obscure  of  the  painter-poet's  mirror  and  discern 
fairer  visions.  If  we  could  only  realise  how 
simple  in  expression  are  the  best  of  his  canvases, 
notwithstanding  the  supposed  complexity  of  his 
ideas,  we  might  let  his  thrice  subtle  magic  work 
its  will  upon  us. 

Mr.  James  remarks  that  "  there  are  two  kinds 
of  taste  in  the  appreciation  of  imaginative  litera 
ture  —  the  taste  for  emotions  of  surprise  and  the 
taste  for  emotions  of  recognition."  It  is  the  same 
122 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

with  pictorial  art.  In  the  case  of  the  other  men 
our  emotions  of  recognition  are  gratified.  But 
with  Davies  it  is  always  the  emotion  of  surprise. 
His  imagination  plays  him  pranks;  it  leads  him 
into  dangerous  spots.  This  seer  of  visions,  this 
poet  who  would  penetrate  the  earthly  envelope 
and  surprise  the  secret  fevers  of  the  soul,  dis 
engage  the  solemn  emotions  of  subliminal  per 
sonality,  evoke  magical  scenes  in  a  no-man's-land 
with  Botticellian  figures,  primitive  seas  and  hills, 
a  sort  of  pre-Raphaelitic  mood  disquietingly  inter 
fused  by  a  delicate  modern  feeling;  a  neurotic 
strain  of  ascetic  music,  with  the  hills  of  a  celestial 
Florence  for  a  frame  and  the  antique  nymphs  of 
the  brake  moving  or  reclining  melodiously  — 
into  what  category  may  we  compress  Davies? 
He  is  obstinately  mediaeval,  until  he  carelessly 
brushes  in  the  grandeur  of  a  California  forest. 
His  women,  nympholepts,  affect  the  imagination 
as  do  the  bacchantes  of  Maurice  de  Guerin.  And 
yet  he  catches  with  exquisite  tact  the  virginal 
lines  of  a  young  girl  who  surely  lives  not  far  from 
Central  Park.  He  has  the  apocalyptic  strain  in 
him  and  many  of  his  canvases  are  darkened  by 
symbols.  But  beauty  is  always  present,  else  its 
fragrance  hinted  at.  Those  fragile,  mysterious 
women,  haunted  by  visions  of  the  great  god 
Dionysos,  or  perhaps  Pan,  where  do  they  come 
from,  where  are  they  going?  One  can  ask  of 
Davies  as  did  the  Centaur  of  another:  "The 
jealous  gods  have  buried  somewhere  proofs  of 
the  origins  of  all  things,  but  upon  the  shores  of 
123 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  PAINTERS 

what  ocean  have  they  rolled  the  stone  that  hides 
them,  O  Macareus?"  Upon  the  crust  of  what 
planet  have  you  seen  your  picture  visions,  O 
Arthur  Davies? 


1*4 


VI 

MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 


AFTER  a  performance  of  Tristan  und  Isolde, 
March,  1876,  at  Berlin,  the  well-known  music- 
critic  Louis  Ehlert  registers  the  remarks  of  two 
friends  who  sat  on  either  side  of  him.  The 
younger  man  exclaimed:  "The  world  holds  no 
pleasure  after  this";  the  elder  whispered:  "A 
few  more  evenings  like  this  and  my  strength  will 
sink  into  the  grave."  These  widely  diverging 
views  of  two  opposed  temperaments,  not  to  con 
sider  as  a  factor  the  different  ages,  might  serve 
as  a  classic  example  of  the  attitudes  invariably 
struck  in  the  presence  of  a  new  work  of  art. 
Not  that  old  age  always  faces  the  past  —  we 
know  that  the  reverse  is  often  the  case  —  but 
the  lack  of  apprehension  or  sympathy  is  usually 
the  result  of  a  certain  way  of  seeing  or  hearing 
things,  and  it  is  quite  useless  to  attempt  to  con 
vert  such  people  into  your  manner  of  thinking. 
Why  upset  the  picture  of  the  world  you  have  so 
laboriously  built  up  simply  because  an  impudent 
nobody  comes  along  and  shows  you  his  version, 
the  outcome  of  disordered  vision  or  a  desire  for 
sejf-advertisement!  Such  a  thing  were  impos- 

125 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

sible.  The  young  man  of  the  Ehlert  story  was 
a  Wagnerian  lover  and  later  in  his  life  would 
have  been  the  first  to  hiss  the  music  of  Richard 
Strauss.  The  men  to-day  who  fought  so  valiantly 
for  the  impressionistic  movement  are  hurling 
contemptuous  epithets  at  the  neo-impressionists 
and  the  post-impressionists.  The  younger  gen 
eration  bangs  at  the  door,  the  older  fires  its 
critical  blunderbuss  at  the  intruders  from  the  first 
floor,  and  no  one  is  wounded,  neither  is  any  one 
convinced  against  his  will.  The  strange  part  of 
it  all  is  that  about  every  quarter  of  a  century  the 
operation  is  repeated,  yet  no  one  learns  the  les 
son  of  the  past.  Perhaps  it  is  better  so,  else  no 
real  progress  would  be  made.  After  the  fat  the 
lean,  after  the  feast  the  famine,  after  Manet, 
Matisse;  after  Wagner,  Richard  Strauss;  after 
Flaubert,  Zola ;  after  Zola  —  the  deluge.  And 
so  will  it  continue;  otherwise  artistic  stagnation. 
Change  and  criticism  are  inevitable  if  a  living 
organism  is  to  be  conserved;  we  do  not  discuss 
the  dead.  Therefore  let  us  talk  of  the  post- 
impressionists,  a  vital  issue  now  in  the  world  of 
art. 

Every  law  has  its  holidays,  said  the  worthy 
Professor  Ehlert,  and  in  each  new  manifestation 
of  the  artistic  spirit  the  laws  that  governed  the 
arts  we  first  learned  seem  to  be  cast  aside  as  use 
less;  we  say  seem  because  it  is  only  self-deception 
evoked  by  the  strangeness  of  the  method,  the 
inclusion  of  new  material,  and  the  personality  of 
the  new  man.  After  a  time  the  novelty  wearg 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

away  and  intrinsic  qualities  remain  to  be  judged. 
Ibsen  was  called  an  immoralist  and  a  revolution 
ary  dramatist;  to-day  we  know  that  his  work 
and  character  are  all  of  a  piece,  sound  in  art  and 
spirit  and  in  the  direct  line  of  his  great  dramatic 
forebears.  What  hasn't  Wagner  been  called, 
Wagner  a  melodist  of  Mozartian  fecundity  if  you 
compare  him  with  his  successors?  And  Charles 
Baudelaire,  prosecuted  for  a  few  poems  that  no 
one  reads  nowadays  except  as  a  duty  or  a  matter 
of  curiosity,  what  of  this  rare  poet,  who  actually 
brought  fresh  subject  matter  into  the  formal  and 
faded  garden  of  French  verse !  We  do  not  speak 
here  of  the  sonorous  Victor  Hugo,  for  man  can 
not  live  by  rhetoric  alone.  Baudelaire  treated 
evil  as  a  theme  without  the  sugary  sentiment  of 
a  Coppee  or  the  impassive  perfection  of  the 
Parnassians.  Naturally  he  was  misunderstood. 
Manet  fought  a  lifelong  battle  with  people  who 
could  not  see  his  artistic  descent  from  Velasquez 
and  Goya.  Claude  Monet,  the  first  and,  we  are 
tempted  to  add,  the  only  impressionist,  now  a 
classic,  was  a  few  years  ago  regarded  as  a  dauber; 
his  exquisite  tonalities  were  smears  made  by  one 
who  possessed  no  craftsmanship.  The  slanting 
sun  of  a  decrepit  civilization  feebly  shone  on 
French  art,  so  averred  the  enemies  of  impres 
sionism,  though  by  1880  the  group  had  won  the 
battle,  and  this  same  year  also  proved  a  marking 
date  for  the  victories  of  Wagner,  and  of  the 
realistic  school  in  fiction,  French  and  Russian. 
In  a  phrase,  the  tumescence  of  the  classicists,  of 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

the  romantics,  had  set  in;  antique  stale  formulas 
were  discarded,  and  new  facets  of  art,  the  eternal 
Proteus,  were  discovered.  Paul  Gauguin  has 
said  that  in  art  one  is  either  a  plagiarist  or  a 
revolutionary.  He  might  have  added  that  the 
secret  of  success  in  art  is  excess. 

But  does  this  new  art,  do  these  inhuman,  nay 
esoteric  arabesques  represent  a  veracious  mood? 
What  becomes  of  the  rainbows  and  flutes,  the 
ivory,  apes,  and  peacocks,  the  pomegranates 
and  persimmons  of  the  past?  They  can't  en 
dure  forever.  After  Monet?  Not  Matisse,  be 
cause  a  strong  man  intervened,  Paul  Cezanne; 
and  the  new  movement  dates  from  Cezanne; 
as  surely  as  evolution  from  Charles  Darwin. 
In  literature  the  firm  prose  and  lucid  lubricity 
of  Huysmans  revealed  to  the  clairvoyant  Zola 
that  this  descendant  of  Flemish  painters  was  the 
true  realist  of  the  naturalistic  school,  and  not 
Maupassant,  who,  as  George  Moore  so  happily 
put  it,  absorbed  as  much  of  the  genius  of  Flau 
bert  as  he  could  and  then  proceeded  to  "cut  it 
into  numberless  walking  sticks."  And  when 
Cezanne  was  understood  he  and  not  Monet  be 
came  chief  of  the  school.  Why  Cezanne?  We 
know  that  naturalism  is  dead  for  the  present, 
that  symbolism  has  gone  the  way  of  all  things 
born  flawed,  yet  the  younger  men  are  obsessed 
by  a  mixture  of  realism  and  symbolism  that 
almost  defies  analysis.  Through  the  gates  of 
ivory  or  the  gates  of  horn  will  you  steer  your 
bark?  Degas  and  Manet  are  called  "old  hat" 
128 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

in  Paris;  there  are  no  younger  men  of  such  vig 
orous  personality  and  gift  of  painting  as  Monet, 
Renoir,  Pissarro.  Is  this  the  reason  that  Paul 
Cezanne,  who,  much  as  we  admire  him,  is  in 
ferior  as  a  sheer  manipulator  of  paint  if  com 
pared  to  the  five  men  just  named,  was  shoved 
into  the  place  of  honour?  Or  was  there  some 
fundamental  reason  why  he  of  all  others  was 
selected  as  a  starting-point  by  Gauguin  and  Van 
Gogh?  You  may  recall  his  acid  criticism  of  this 
pair  and  his  violent  disclaimer  that  they  were 
pupils  of  his  or  that  they  continued  his  tradition. 
And  just  here  we  come  across  the  name  of  Emile 
Bernard,  for  it  was  that  painter  who  recorded 
the  utterances  of  Cezanne  after  he  had  visited 
him  at  Aix  in  Provence. 

Now  Bernard,  who  is  an  excellent  artist,  has 
shocked  many  by  what  he  calls  a  refutation  of 
impressionising,  and  if  it  had  been  written  by 
the  late  Albert  Wolff  of  the  Figaro  it  couldn't 
have  been  more  destructive,  in  sentiment  at 
least,  although  as  it  came  from  the  pen  of  a 
painter  the  technical  side  is  dealt  with  more 
drastically  than  if  it  had  been  composed  by  the 
shallow,  prejudiced,  but  clever  Wolff.  Ber 
nard  seeks  to  demolish  the  theory  that  impres 
sionism  is  nature  traversed  by  or  viewed  through 
a  temperament,  on  the  score  that  nature,  not 
the  individual,  should  count;  which  is  very 
modest,  but  rather  weak  in  metaphysics.  He 
finds  fault  with  the  colour  theories  of  Chevreul 
and  Rood,  not  as  theories,  but  in  their  applica- 
129 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

tton  by  such  artists  as  Seurat,  Signac,  Anquetin. 
The  science  of  chromatics  has  naught  to  do  with 
the  practice  of  art,  he  contends.  He  reproaches 
the  impressionists  for  their  meagre  palette — 
black  being  banned,  consequently  chiaro-oscuro; 
dark  shadows  do  not  exist  for  the  pleinairistes. 
And  their  much  vaunted  subject  matter,  modern 
life,  what  has  that  led  them  to?  To  the  ex 
clusion  of  the  imaginative,  the  spiritual;  to 
baseness,  to  vulgarity,  even  as  Zola  and  others 
caricatured  Flaubert  and  brought  their  readers 
to  the  dunghill  of  romanticism,  which  is  natural 
ism.  These  impressionistic  painters  are  uglicists ! 
You  seem  to  hear  the  voice  of  Kenyon  Cox 
preaching  in  the  wilderness  of  our  Academy 
when  too  many  impressionistic  canvases  are 
hung.  No  more  savoury  impasto,  no  modulation 
of  tones,  no  rich  couche  of  underpainting;  in 
stead,  all  glaring,  direct  painting,  themes  so 
literal  as  to  be  meaningless,  above  all,  no  emo 
tional  quality.  Impressionism  then  is  a  feeble 
rill  losing  itself  in  the  arid  sands  of  the  obvious. 
We  quote  Emile  Bernard,  not  only  because  he 
is  a  backslider  but  as  an  instance  of  a  critic  like 
a  certain  man  down  South  who  didn't  know  the 
Civil  War  was  over.  There  is  no  necessity  of  a 
propaganda  for  Richard  Wagner.  He  is  a  classic. 
It  is  the  doings  in  tone  of  the  other  Richard  that 
puzzle  the  critics.  Manet,  Monet,  Renoir  are 
all  ranged.  Cezanne  is  still  a  bone  of  contention, 
for  he  attempted  not  only  to  improve  upon  the 
technical  methods  of  his  contemporaries,  the 
130 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

impressionists,  but  also  to  give  to  painting  the 
content  that  it  lacked.  Mr.  Cox  and  Cezanne 
could  have  shaken  hands  on  that  side  of  the 
question,  but  when  it  comes  to  Henri  Matisse  the 
American  critic  would  look  another  way.  What 
though  Matisse  endeavours  to  return  to  the  sub 
ject  in  art,  above  all  dower  the  theme  with  the 
note  of  intensity!  Mr.  Cox  would  probably 
quote  Hamlet  at  him,  saying,  "Thou  com'st  in 
such  a  questionable  shape."  Yes,  it  is  the  shape 
that  affrights  the  conservative,  a  shape  that  seeks 
to  be  more  plastic  than  music  and  as  emotional. 
The  waves  raised  by  the  first  exhibition  of  the 
post-impressionists  at  the  Grafton  Gallery  in 
London  have  not  yet  subsided,  are  still  reverber 
ating  on  distant  shores  where  the  local  critical 
Canutes  stand,  measuring  tape  in  hand,  crying: 
"Thus  far  and  no  further."  One  of  the  fruits 
of  the  discussion  is  a  book  entitled  The  Post- 
Impressionists,  by  the  art  writer,  Mr.  C.  Lewis 
Hind,  another  is  the  news  that  Mr.  Roger  Fry, 
also  an  expert,  who  knows  a  Mantegna  from  a 
Matisse,  or  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw,  has  suc 
cumbed  to  the  malady  and  exhibited  in  Lon 
don,  so  it  is  said,  a  roomful  of  horrors,  staring 
doll-like  nudes,  queer  landscapes  in  which  the 
perspective  falls  away  as  if  the  earth  were  sink 
ing,  the  colours  of  which  are  poisonous  greens 
or  jaundiced  yellows.  We  quote  from  various 
amiable  English  sources.  Mr.  Fry  was  formerly 
a  painter  of  delicate  water-colours.  Why  this 
defection  from  the  revered  standards  of  beauty? 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

In  his  interesting  monograph  Mr.  Hind  tells  us 
in  his  agreeable  style  why — not  specifically  of 
Mr.  Fry,  but  of  the  ideals  of  the  movement  gen 
erally.  Let  us  examine  more  closely  this  latest 
bubble  on  the  turbulent  stream  of  early  twen 
tieth-century  art. 

There  is  no  absolute  in  beauty;  expression, 
not  beauty,  is  the  aim  of  art.  All  the  rest  is 
mere  illustration.  Beauty  is  relative.  It  is 
topographical,  nay  parochial.  The  beauty  of 
Chinese  art  is  not  the  same  beauty  that  informs 
Occidental  art.  When  the  Wagnerian  music  was 
first  heard  it  gave  much  pain  to  people  whose 
aural  organs  had  been  soothed  by  the  charming 
music  of  Mendelssohn.  But  Wagner  didn't  care, 
for  he  couldn't  use  the  saccharine  Mendelssohn 
palette  to  paint  the  full-length  portraits  of  the 
brutal  Hunding,  the  acrid  Alberich,  or  of  the  in 
comparable  Brunnhilde.  Nietzsche  has  pointed 
out  that  our  present  system  of  morality  may 
dangerously  approach  immorality  if  practised  at 
the  antipodes.  Cezanne  felt  that  the  melliflu 
ous,  shimmering  tones  of  the  poetic  pantheist 
Claude  Monet  would  not  serve  to  express  his 
sober,  solid  picture  of  a  section  of  the  universe 
(and  how  modest  he  was,  for  his  universe,  his 
Motive,  was  a  slice  of  a  hill  near  his  home).  Paul 
Gauguin,  sickening  of  the  ninety  times  nine 
thousand  times  represented  life  of  Paris  and  the 
provinces,  fled  to  the  South  Sea  Islands  and 
there  lived  the  existence  of  a  glorified  beach 
comber.  But  he  formed  for  himself  a  fresh  syn- 
132 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

thesis,  painted  extraordinary  sights,  painted  mas 
sive  decorations  in  which  ecstasy  lives.  Van 
Gogh,  the  genius  of  this  ill-assorted  new  trinity 
of  paint-gods,  went  the  way  of  those  who  live  too 
intensely.  To  understand  him  fully  one  must 
study  Ricciotto  Canudo's  Les  Liberes,  in  which 
the  madman  is  revealed,  not  as  a  sick  being,  but 
as  one  overflowing  with  so  much  health  that  the 
brain  and  body  crumble  in  the  fierce  confla 
gration  —  a  refreshing  variation  of  Nordau's  de 
generation  theme.  Vincent  Van  Gogh  hovered 
on  the  borderland  of  madness  and  genius.  But 
he  was  the  best-equipped  of  the  three  in  the  gifts 
of  painter  and  visionary.  From  these  men  stem 
Matisse  and  the  new  crowd.  Away  with  all  the 
old  stock  attitudes  and  gestures;  a  new  syn 
thesis,  an  immobility  Asiatic  in  its  hieratic  im 
mobility,  a  different  mosaic  of  tones,  are  their 
watchwords. 

Mr.  Hind  prefers  expressionism  as  a  term  to 
define  the  ideal  of  the  movement  rather  than  the 
clumsy  compound  post-impressionism.  To  ex 
press  an  idea  emotionally  in  a  medium  of  only 
two  dimensions  is  not  easy.  Is  it  possible?  The 
Sistine  Chapel  arouses  the  sensation  of  awe  in  the 
mind  of  the  spectator.  Raphael  fills  us  with  a 
calm  joy.  Durer  puzzles  as  well  as  stirs,  and  Da 
Vinci  is  wholly  beautiful,  with  the  threefold 
beauties  of  colour,  form,  and  suggestion.  What, 
then,  are  these  crazy  new  chaps  after?  Isn't 
the  vision  of  their  grandfathers  good  enough? 
Evidently  they  think  not;  yet  wrestle  as  they 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

do  to  extort  novel  ideas,  their  art  recalls  some 
art  that  has  pre-existed,  and  lying  dormant 
for  centuries  has  gained  a  new  dynamic  force. 
Behold  Assyria  and  Egypt  in  Pablo  Picasso's 
work.  The  cubists  or  geometricians,  or  what 
not  —  how  they  love  new  names  for  old  things 
—  are  not  precisely  novel.  Despite  Edwin 
Bjorkman  to  the  contrary,  there  is  no  new  thing 
under  the  sun,  not  even  his  assertion.  Let  us 
not  pale  before  the  ugly  manifestations  of  young 
France.  They  may  be  gods,  after  all,  as  Baude 
laire  said  when  somebody  in  his  presence  at 
tacked  strange  idols.  But  with  so  many  other 
practitioners  of  this  school  the  cleavage  between 
idea  and  image  is  appalling. 

It  has  been  said  that  you  may  not  have  seen  a 
man  or  woman  or  landscape  such  as  Cezanne 
shows  in  his  canvases,  but  after  seeing  them  you 
can  never  forget  them,  for  you  will  see  them 
again  in  life.  Who  before  Corot  showed  us  a 
landscape  like  this?  You  need  not  go  to  Ville 
d'Avray  to  see  such.  It  is  the  individual  vision 
of  the  artist  that  teaches  anew  the  innocence  of 
our  eye.  Consider  the  school  of  English  face 
painters  —  can  they  stand  the  test  of  criticism, 
the  sort  of  criticism  you  apply  to  Rembrandt, 
Hals,  Velasquez,  Titian,  Raphael  (the  portrait 
ist),  or  Manet?  For  more  than  one  modern 
critic  the  colour  of  Reynolds,  Hoppner,  Law 
rence,  Romney  —  not  Raeburn  —  is  a  mere 
shining  poultice,  as  glistening  and  insincere  as 
what  a  German  writer  calls  "  snail  slime  with 

134 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

raspberry  sauce"  (" Schneckenschleim  mit  Him- 
beer  sauce").  As  to  form,  how  weak  the  line 
and  what  conventional  simplifications,  above  all 
what  insipid  prettifications.  This  iconoclastic 
criticism  is  not  rare.  And  can  our  painters  go 
on  for  ever  imitating  the  Barbizon  school,  so 
called,  or  for  that  matter  the  impressionists  of 
1880?  But  the  new  wine  is  very  heady  for  young 
folk,  a  sort  of  epileptic  cider;  isn't  all  cham 
pagne  epileptic  cider?  Yet  after  the  giddiness, 
the  intoxication,  the  morning  headaches  have 
vanished  there  may  be  a  residue  of  art  remaining. 
Matisse  has  been  much  abused.  We  confess  a 
weakness  for  his  drawings,  as  we  do  for  the 
drawings  of  Rodin,  of  Augustus  John,  of  Davies. 
Frank  J.  Mather,  Jr.,  than  whom  we  recognise 
no  more  competent  critic  to  deal  with  this  thrill 
ing  theme,  asserted  that  the  line  of  Matisse  re 
minded  him  of  the  line  of  Antonio  Pollaiuolo, 
which  statement  is  rather  a  startling  one  com 
ing  from  the  distinguished  Marquand  professor 
of  Princeton,  who  cannot  be  accused  of  an  un 
due  liking  for  latter-day  movements  in  art.  Un 
fortunately  sterile  eccentricities  mar  the  painted 
work  of  Matisse. 

What  is  post-impressionism?  What  is  this  cruel 
alchemy  that  deforms  the  supple  curves  of  the 
human  figure  into  images  both  hideous  and  ter 
rifying?  Into  what  backward  abysm  are  we  being 
led?  Mr.  Hind  does  not  altogether  succeed  in 
answering  the  somewhat  illusive  question.  We 
only  know  that,  weary  of  the  externalism  of  the 

135 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

impressionists,  a  new  group  began  experiment 
ing  and  broke  the  old  linear  mould,  altered  the 
old  colour  schemes.  To  each  man  his  own  vision, 
and  except  a  certain  sincerity  there  is  not  much 
sameness  in  the  technical  procedures  of  Ce 
zanne  or  Gauguin  or  Van  Gogh  or  Matisse.  The 
imitators  need  not  be  discussed;  epigones  always 
exaggerate.  What  do  we  care,  for  example,  for 
a  Kees  Van  Dongen  and  his  paradoxes  in  paint? 
But  if  post-impressionism  means  the  work  of 
Davies  or  Augustus  John  or  the  line  of  Matisse, 
then  we  are  believers  in  post-impressionism.  No 
matter  the  strangeness  of  image,  the  eternal  emo 
tion  of  the  cosmos  must  sing,  else  it  is  no  art.  Let 
us  be  catholic,  let  us  be  open-minded.  Depend 
upon  it,  if  these  artists  paint  as  they  do  they 
do  so  for  sufficient  reasons.  Hanslick  once  wrote 
"not  the  opera,  but  the  public  was  a  failure." 
For  many  years  it  was  the  public  that  failed, 
not  Tristan  und  Isolde;  for  a  long  time  Manet 
was  accused  of  deforming  the  ideal  of  beauty 
(meaning  of  course  the  academic  Lefebvre, 
Bouguereau  &  Co.).  Eyes  there  were  too  few 
to  appreciate  his  genius.  Rhythmic  intensity  is 
the  key  to  the  new  school;  line,  not  colour,  is 
king.  Not  beauty,  but,  as  Rodin  said,  character, 
character  is  the  aim  of  the  new  art. 


136 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

II 
THE  MATISSE  DRAWINGS 

The  second  batch  of  Matisse  drawings  were 
fascinating;  where  his  followers  plod  panting 
miles  behind,  he  leaps  the  stiflest  barriers  by 
reason  of  his  sheer  virtuosity.  His  real  friends 
(not  the  sort  who  moan  in  ecstasy  over  his  new 
monkeyshines)  and  critics  have  noted,  not  with 
out  regret,  that  the  Master  (he  has  attained  the 
dignity  of  capitalisation)  is  given  to  the  bootless 
task  of  shocking  the  bourgeois.  Poor  old  bour 
geois;  how  they  have  been  shocked  from  the 
Hernani  days  of  Theophile  Gautier  to  the  ma 
cabre  merry-making  of  Huysmans  and  thefumi- 
sterie  of  Paul  Gauguin!  And  the  young  fellows 
are  still  at  it.  Who  hasn't  contributed  his  share, 
if  his  boyhood  were  worthy  the  name?  The  small 
boy  snow-balling  the  fat  teacher  is  as  much 
a  symbol  of  the  revolt  of  youth  against  sleek 
authority  as  is  an  Emma  Goldman  lecture  on 
Ibsen  for  the  instruction  of  our  police.  But  why 
Matisse?  Here  is  a  chap  whose  talent  is  dis 
tinguished.  He  can  make  his  pencil  or  brush 
sing  at  the  bidding  of  his  brain;  better  still,  that 
brain  is  fed  by  eyes  which  refuse  to  see  humanity 
or  landscape  in  the  conventional  terms  of  the 
school.  He  wishes  not  only  to  astonish  worthy 
folk  but  also  to  charm  their  cheque  books.  Paris 
is  always  the  prey  of  the  dernier  cri,  and  Matisse, 
unless  he  has  been  ousted  during  the  last  month, 

137 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

is  not  only  the  latest  cry  but,  we  hope,  the 
ultimate  scream.  At  his  worst  he  shocks ;  at  his 
best  his  art  is  as  attractive  as  an  art  can  be  that 
reveals  while  it  dazzles,  makes  captive  when  it 
consoles. 

The  two  dozen  and  more  sketches  on  the  walls 
of  Mr.  Stieglitz's  gallery  were  of  a  range  and  in 
tensity  that  set  tingling  the  pulse  of  any  honest 
craftsman.  It  is  not  alone  the  elliptical  route 
pursued  by  Matisse  in  his  desire  to  escape  the 
obvious  and  suppress  the  inutile,  but  the  crea 
tive  force  of  his  sinuous  emotional  line.  It  is  a 
richly  fed  line,  bounding,  but  not  wiry,  as  is 
Blake's.  Its  power  of  evoking  tactile  sensations 
is  as  vigorous,  rhythmic,  and  subtle  as  the  or 
chestration  of  Richard  Strauss.  Little  wonder 
collectors  in  Paris  are  buying  Matisse  just  be 
cause  of  his  emotional  suggestiveness.  There  is 
a  sketch  in  the  middle  of  the  east  wall  before 
which  William  Blake  would  have  paused  and 
wondered.  It  is  worthy  of  Blake,  or  it  might 
have  been  signed,  despite  its  casual  air,  by  one 
of  the  early  Italian  masters.  Orphic  or  Bacchic, 
we  can't  say  which,  these  tiny  figures  hold  their 
own  in  a  composition  simple  to  bareness,  each 
endowed  with  an  ecstatic  individual  life.  In  the 
right  foreground,  as  seen  by  the  spectator,  a 
woman  lies  on  the  ground,  a  man  sits  hunched 
up  near  by.  The  pair,  without  the  remotest  hint 
of  the  conventional  erotic,  tell  more  in  a  few 
lines  than  could  a  volume.  Only  Rodin  has 
compassed  such,  though  his  is  the  stenographic 

138 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,   AND  OTHERS 

method  of  the  sculptor,  not  of  the  painter,  es 
pecially  of  a  painter  whose  colour  is  so  bewilder- 
ingly  opulent  as  that  of  Matisse. 

After  all,  nature  is  a  dictionary;  the  artist  goes 
to  her  for  words,  not  to  copy;  he  must  phrase  in 
his  own  personal  way  if  he  expects  to  achieve 
originality.  With  the  exceptions  of  Whistler 
and  Cezanne  no  one  has  studied  the  patterns  of 
the  East  as  Matisse.  He  always  sees  the  dec 
oration  and  makes  you  see  it,  unless  you  are 
blinded  by  the  memory  of  some  other  man's  line. 
There  is  no  monopoly  in  the  conventional,  and 
because  thousands  of  painters  have  envisaged 
the  nude  in  a  certain  —  and  usually  the  same  — 
monotonous  fashion,  that  should  not  attenuate 
our  agreement  with  the  vision  of  Matisse.  His 
knowledge  is  great,  his  simplicity  greater.  Such 
problems  as  are  set  forth  and  mastered  in  that 
woman  —  we  only  see  her  back  —  who  has 
thrown  herself  forward  in  sheer  weariness  must 
extort  a  tribute  of  admiration  from  any  fair- 
minded  lover  of  art.  Another  woman  places  one 
arm  over  the  other  close  at  the  wrists.  A  series 
of  delicate  muscular  acts  are  involved.  Im 
mobility  is  the  result,  but  even  when  the  body  is 
at  rest  the  muscles  are  never  quite  still.  The 
rich  interplay  of  flexor  and  extensor  in  the 
muscles  of  the  Matisse  models  delights  and  ap 
pals.  Who  has  ever  dared  before  to  push  so 
far,  dared  to  annex  territory  that  is  supposed  to 
belong  to  the  anatomist  proper?  Yet  no  sus 
picion  of  the  anatomy  lesson  is  conveyed  in  these 

139 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

singularly  alive  nudes.  Matisse  is  dominated  by 
an  idea,  but  it  is  not  a  didactic  idea.  His  colour 
sense  is  profound.  Fancy  black  and  white  still- 
life  that  brings  to  you  the  jewelled  sensation  of 
fruit  and  flowers!  Patterns,  whether  Persian  or 
Japanese,  are  to  be  detected  in  his  landscape  bits 
and  still-life.  And  what  mastery  in  spacing. 
Far  back  his  art  is  rooted  in  Manet  and  Cezanne; 
the  abridgments  of  the  one  and  the  sense  of 
structural  bulk  and  weight  of  the  other,  with 
much  of  his  harmonic  sense,  are  suggested  in  both 
the  portraits  and  the  flower  pieces;  yet  you  feel 
the  subtle  pull  of  the  East  throughout  all.  Some 
of  his  creatures  are  not  presentable  in  academic 
studios,  but  you  forget  their  pose  and  pessi 
mism  and  the  hollow  pits  that  serve  for  their  fero 
cious  eyes  in  the  truth  and  magic  of  their  con 
tours.  One  woman  with  balloon  hips  is  almost 
a  caricature  until  you  discover  the  repetitions 
of  curves  in  sky,  bodily  structure,  and  earth.  In 
a  word,  an  amazing  artist,  original  in  observation 
and  a  scorner  of  the  facile  line,  the  line  called 
graceful,  sweet,  genteel;  worse  yet,  moral.  Men 
like  Matisse  and  Richard  Strauss  do  good  in 
stirring  the  stale  swamp  of  respectability,  not 
withstanding  the  violence  of  their  methods. 
Otherwise  art  would  become,  does  become,  a 
frozen  symbol.  These  barbarous  natures  bring 
with  them  fresh  rhythms  —  and  then  they  too 
succumb  to  the  love  of  the  sensational;  they 
too,  more's  the  pity,  cultivate  their  hysteria,  fol 
lowing  the  evil  advice  of  Charles  Baudelaire,  and 
140 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

finally  become  locked  in  the  relentless  grip  of 
their  own  limitations.  All  things  pass  and  perish 
and  in  a  dozen  years  children  may  be  taken  to 
special  matinees  of  Elektra,  there  to  be  amused, 
as  they  are  amused  to-day,  by  the  antics  of  the 
animals  and  monsters  in  Wagner's  Ring,  and  the 
Matisse  drawings  may  be  used  for  the  instruc 
tion  of  maidenly  beginners.  Who  knows!  This 
exhibition  was  more  instructive  and  moving  than 
a  century  of  academy  shows. 


Ill 
PABLO  PICASSO 

A  dozen  years  or  more  ago  Pablo  Picasso 
arrived  in  Paris,  having  an  excellent  equipment 
with  which  to  conquer  the  world  artistic.  He 
was  a  superior  draughtsman,  a  born  colourist, 
a  passionate  harmonist;  he  incarnated  in  his 
production  the  temperament  of  his  Iberian  race. 
Mr.  Stieglitz  has  shown  us  at  the  galleries  of  the 
Photo-Secession  a  few  drawings  of  that  period; 
they  are  supple,  alert,  savant,  above  all  charged 
with  vitality.  Then  the  spirit  of  Henri  Matisse 
moved  across  the  waters  of  his  imagination,  as 
did  that  of  Debussy  in  the  misty  wild  regions 
of  Ravel  and  Dukas.  To-day  Picasso  has  sur 
passed  his  master  in  hardihood,  as  Matisse  left 
lagging  both  Gauguin  and  Cezanne,  St.  Paul 
the  Minor  and  St.  Paul  the  Major,  in  the  rear. 
When  exhibiting  in  the  Galerie  Volard,  Paris, 
141 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

critical  commentary  made  one  gasp;  he  is  either 
a  satyr  or  a  Hyperion ;  there  is  no  middle  point 
in  the  chorus  of  execration  and  exaltation.  We 
believe  this  is  wrong  and  makes  for  critical 
confusion. 

In  an  illuminating  address  Mr.  W.  C.  Brownell 
remarked  that  "every  important  piece  of  litera 
ture,  as  every  important  work  of  plastic  art,  is 
the  expression  of  a  personality,  and  it  is  not  the 
material  of  it  but  the  mind  behind  it  that  invites 
critical  interpretation."  Precisely  so,  though  we 
do  not  believe  that  either  to  the  reason  or  to  the 
imagination  of  this  distinguished  critic  the  pi 
oneer  Picasso  would  make  much  of  an  appeal. 
And  even  this  opinion  we  put  forth  diffidently, 
remembering  that  when  the  name  of  Rodin  was 
still  anathema  Mr.  Brownell  had  written  almost 
a  book  about  the  sculptor.  Picasso  is  miles  away 
from  Rodin,  yet  he  is  striving  for  a  new  method 
of  expression,  one  that  will  show  us  his  new 
vision  of  the  powers  and  principalities  of  the 
earth.  (At  present  Satan  is  chanting  the  chief 
role  in  his  composition.)  It's  anarchic,  certainly; 
that's  why  we  tolerate  it  despite  its  appalling 
ugliness;  anything  is  better  than  the  parrot-like 
repetitions  of  the  academic. 

What  is  meant  by  the  new  "vision"?  Why 
shouldn't  the  vision  that  pleased  our  great 
grandfather  content  his  great-grandchildren? 
You  must  go  to  Stendhal  for  an  answer.  Because 
each  generation,  whether  for  better  or  worse, 
sees  the  world  anew,  or  thinks  it  does;  at  least 
142 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

it  is  "different"  in  the  Stendhalian  sense.  For  a 
keener  definition  let  us  quote  D.  S.  MacColl: 
"This  new  vision  that  has  been  growing  up 
among  the  landscape  painters  simplifies  as  well 
as  complicates  the  old.  For  purposes  of  analysis 
it  sees  the  world  as  a  mosaic  of  patches  of  colour, 
such  and  such  a  hue  of  such  and  such  a  tone  of 
such  and  such  a  shape.  The  old  vision  had 
beaten  out  three  separate  acts,  the  determination 
of  the  edges  and  limits  of  things,  the  shading  and 
modelling  of  the  spaces  in  between  with  black 
and  white,  and  the  tinting  of  those  spaces  with 
their  local  colour.  The  new  analysis  looked  first 
for  colour  and  for  a  different  colour  in  each  patch 
of  shade  or  light.  The  old  painting  followed  the 
old  vision  by  its  three  processes  of  drawing  the 
contours,  modelling  the  chiaro-oscuro  in  dead 
colour,  and  finally  colouring  this  white  and  black 
preparation.  The  new  analysis  left  the  contours 
to  be  determined  by  the  junction,  more  or  less 
fused,  of  the  colour  patches,  instead  of  rigidly 
denning  them  as  they  are  known  to  be  denned 
when  seen  near  at  hand  or  felt.  Its  precepts  were 
to  recover  the  innocence  of  the  eye,  to  forget  the 
thing  as  an  object  with  its  shapes  and  colours  as 
they  are  known  to  exist  under  other  aspects,  to 
follow  the  fact  of  vision,  however  surprising, 
recognise  that  contours  are  lost  and  found,  that 
local  colour  in  light  and  shade  becomes  different 
not  only  in  tone  but  also  in  hue.  And  painting 
tended  to  follow  this  new  vision  by  substituting 
one  process  for  three;  the  painter  matched  the 

143 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

hue  and  tone  at  once  of  each  ^  atch,  and  shaped  a 
patch  on  the  canvas  of  the  corresponding  shape, 
ceasing  to  think  in  lines  except  as  the  boundaries 
by  which  these  patches  limit  one  another. " 
Elsewhere  Mr.  MacColl  asserts  that  the  true  his 
tory  of  man  would  be  the  history  of  his  imagina 
tion.  It  would  prove,  we  think,  a  more  stupen 
dous  undertaking  than  Lord  Acton's  projected 
history  of  ideas. 

For  over  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  impres 
sionists  did  cease  to  think  in  lines  and  modelled 
in  patches,  but  curiously  enough  the  return  to 
the  academic,  so  called,  was  led  by  the  least 
academic  of  painters,  Paul  Cezanne.  Strictly 
speaking,  he  was  not  a  genius,  though  a  far  better 
painter  than  his  misguided  follower  (Cezanne's 
own  words)  Gauguin,  who,  despite  his  strong  dec 
orative  talent,  never  learned  how  to  handle  paint 
as  a  master.  Cezanne  was  for  returning  to  the 
much  neglected  form.  "  Don't  make  Chinese 
images  like  Gauguin,"  he  cried;  "all  nature  must 
be  modelled  after  the  sphere,  cone,  and  cylinder. 
As  for  the  colours,  the  more  the  colours  harmo 
nise  the  more  the  design  becomes  precise."  Ce 
zanne  is  the  father  of  the  post-impressionists, 
and  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  they  are 
impressionists  with  the  "new  vision"  so  clearly 
described  above  by  MacColl.  They  have  gone 
on  and  consider  the  division-of-tones  men,  Monet 
included,  as  old-fashioned  as  Gerome  and  Bou- 
guereau.  And  as  extremes  meet,  the  contem 
porary  crowd  are  primitives,  who  have  a  word  of 
144 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

praise  for  Ingres  but  a  hatred  of  Delacroix. 
They  also  loathe  Courbet  and  call  the  first  im 
pressionism  mere  materialism.  To  spiritualise 
or  make  more  emotional  the  line,  to  be  personal 
and  not  the  follower  of  formulas  —  ah,  mirage 
of  each  succeeding  artistic  generation !  —  are  the 
main  ideas  of  this  school,  which  abhors  the  clas 
sic,  romantic,  impressionistic  schools.  It  has  one 
painter  of  great  distinction,  Henri  Matisse;  from 
him  a  mob  of  disciples  have  emanated.  Among 
the  Americans  are  Weber,  Maurer,  Marsden 
Hartley,  John  Marin,  and  others. 

Picasso  is  also  one,  but  a  disciple  who  has 
thrown  off  the  influence  of  the  master.  He  goes 
his  own  way,  which  is  the  geometrical.  He  sees 
the  world  and  mankind  in  cubes  or  pyramids. 
His  ideal  form  is  pyramidal.  There  is  the 
back  of  a  giantess  corseted.  Her  torso  is  power 
fully  modelled;  no  dim  hint  of  indecision  here. 
The  lines  are  pyramidal.  Power  is  in  them. 
Obsessed  by  the  Egyptians,  Picasso  has  desert 
ed  his  earlier  linear  suavity  for  a  hieratic 
rigidity,  which  nevertheless  does  not  altogether 
cut  off  emotional  expressiveness.  There  are  at 
titudes  and  gestures  that  register  profound  feel 
ing,  grotesque  as  may  be  the  outer  envelope. 
He  gives  us  his  emotion  in  studying  a  figure. 
And  remember  this  is  a  trained  artist  who  has 
dropped  the  entire  baggage  of  a  lifetime's  study 
to  follow  his  beckoning  star.  To  set  it  all  down 
to  a  desire  to  stir  up  philistia  would  be  to  classify 
Picasso  as  a  madman,  for  there  are  easier  routes 

.145 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

to  the  blazing  land  of  reclame  than  the  particu 
larly  thorny  and  ugly  one  he  has  chosen.  There 
is  method  in  his  wildest  performances,  method 
and  at  times  achievement  even  to  the  uninitiated 
eye.  His  is  not  the  cult  of  the  ugly  for  the  sake 
of  ugliness,  but  the  search  after  the  expressive  in 
the  heart  of  ugliness.  A  new  aesthetic?  No,  a 
very  old  one  revivified,  and  perhaps  because  of 
its  modern  rebirth  all  the  uglier,  and  as  yet  a 
mere  diabolic,  not  divine,  stammering. 

The  best,  or  worst,  of  Picasso  was  not  at  this 
little  exposition.  Our  objection  to  it  and  to 
others  of  its  kind  (though  we  are  grateful  to 
Mr.  Stieglitz  for  his  unselfish  impresarioship  in 
these  affairs)  is  that  such  drawing  and  pain  ting  are 
only  for  a  few  artists.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say 
that  the  public  will  learn  later  to  appreciate;  we 
doubt  it.  It  either  gasps  or  mocks;  sympathy 
it  seldom  develops.  To  a  vision  like  Picasso's 
the  external  of  the  human  form  is  only  a  rind  to 
be  peeled  away.  At  times  he  is  an  anatomist, 
not  an  analyst;  the  ugly  asymmetry  of  the 
human  body  is  pitilessly  revealed,  but  as  a  rule 
he  abstracts  the  shell  and  seeks  to  give  shape  and 
expression  to  his  vision.  Alas,  nearly  always  do 
we  shudder  or  else  smile!  Those  inanimate 
blocks,  kindergarten  idols  of  wood  and  bronze, 
what  do  they  mean?  You  dream  of  immemorial 
Asiatic  monsters  and  also  of  the  verses  of  Emile 
Verhaeren:  "The  desert  of  my  soul  is  peopled 
with  black  gods,  huge  blocks  of  wood";  or  of 
Baudelaire's  spleen  and  ideal  beauty:  "Je  hais 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

le  mouvement  qui  deplace  les  lignes;  et  jamais 
je  ne  pleure  et  jamais  je  ne  ris."  Benjamin  De 
Casseres  in  his  brilliant  summary  of  the  poetry 
of  Leconte  de  Lisle  shows  us  the  genius  of  im 
mobility,  and  his  description  would  fit  Gustave 
Moreau's  picture  as  well:  "When  he  walked  he 
left  abysses  behind  him.  Where  his  eye  fell 
objects  relapsed  into  rigidity.  There  is  no  mo 
tion  in  his  images.  The  universe  is  static,  all 
things  are  turned  marble.  Motion  is  spent. 
.  .  .  Silence,  impassivity,  sterility,  trance,  in  a 
few  magical  strokes  the  universe  of  living  things, 
is  caught  in  the  sin  of  motion  —  vibration  is 
seized  flagrante  delicto  —  and  stiffened  in  its 
multicoloured  shrouds.  The  organic  and  inor 
ganic  worlds  have  stopped  at  high  tide,  turned 
to  adamant  as  at  the  sudden  vision  of  some 
stupendous  revelation." 

Will  Pablo  Picasso  restore  form  to  its  sover 
eignty  in  modern  art?  His  art  is  not  significant, 
yet  with  all  its  deformations,  its  simplifications, 
the  breath  of  life  does  traverse  the  design;  as 
for  his  colour  we  must  imagine  what  it  was  for 
merly,  as  Mark  Twain's  German  musical  public 
loyally  recalled  the  long-time  dead  voice  of  their 
favourite  tenor.  One  Parisian  critic  accused 
Picasso  of  painting  the  portraits  of  anthropoid 
apes  that  had  been  inoculated  by  M.  Metch- 
nikoff.  Gracious  Apollo!  Is  this  irony?  To 
paint  a  counterfeit  of  a  monkey,  sick  or  other 
wise,  is  sound  art,  isn't  it? 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

IV 

TEN  YEARS  LATER 
I 

Ten  years  ago  I  was  present  at  the  first  var 
nishing  day  of  the  Autumn  Salon  in  the  Grand 
Palais  des  Champs-Elysees,  and  last  fall  (1912) 
I  attended  the  tenth  exhibition  of  all  these  young 
and  mature  Independents,  Cubists,  Futurists, 
Post-Impressionists,  and  other  wild  animals  from 
the  remotest  jungles  of  Darkest  Art,  and  I  was 
able  to  estimate  the  progress  made  since  the  first 
function.  Great  has  been  the  change.  Whereas 
a  decade  ago  the  god  of  that  time  was  Paul 
Cezanne,  to-day  there  are  a  dozen  rival  claim 
ants  for  the  job,  vying  with  one  another  in  every 
form  of  extravagance,  so  as  to  catch  the  eye. 
Manet,  Monet,  Degas,  Pissarro,  Sisley  were  in 
the  eyes  of  his  admirers  dethroned  ten  years  ago 
by  Cezanne,  Paul  Gauguin,  Vincent  Van  Gogh; 
now  it's  Matisse,  Picasso,  Picabia,  Van  Dongen, 
to  mention  a  few,  who  look  upon  the  trio  of 
Post-Impressionists  as  "old  masters,"  and,  to 
tell  the  truth,  seem  masters  in  comparison  with 
the  new  crowd  who  have  contemptuously  pitched 
overboard  everything  that  we  oldsters  consider 
as  essentials  in  pictorial  or  plastic  art. 

Will  they,  too,  be  voted  "played  out"  ten 
years  hence?    Is  there  a  still  profounder  level  of 
ugliness  and  repulsiveness  and  idiotic  trickery, 
or  has  the  lowest  been  reached? 
148 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

To  answer  these  questions  one  must  not  re 
sort  to  the  old  argument  as  does  a  writer  in  the 
catalogue  of  the  Autumn  Salon,  pointing  out 
that  Manet,  Wagner,  Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Rodin 
were  voted  incomprehensible.  That  is  too  easy. 
Even  in  the  depths  of  uncritical  ignorance  there 
were  gleams  of  sympathy  for  the  above-men 
tioned  men.  And  in  all  the  ruck  and  welter  of 
the  new  movements  there  are  a  few  men  whose 
work  will  stand  the  test  of  time,  and  to-day  shows 
mastery,  originality,  obscured  as  it  may  be  by 
wilful  eccentricities  and  occasional  posturing  to 
the  gallery  —  a  gallery,  be  it  understood,  com 
posed  of  the  gay  young  dogs  who  yawp  in  paint 
and  screech  themselves  hoarse  whenever  a  col 
league  cuts  up  infernal  didoes.  One  of  the  "new " 
men  I  think  will  come  to  something  is  Henri 
Matisse. 

I  am  not  a  prophet,  though  I  listen  to  proph 
ets.  I  met  one  ten  years  ago  who  had  marched 
to  the  front  with  Edouard  Manet,  but  has  de 
clined  to  go  any  further  in  the  company  of  Paul 
Cezanne.  For  him  the  art  of  Cezanne  was  a 
distinct  retrogression,  and,  recalling  the  stern 
admonition  of  Charles  Baudelaire  —  truly  a 
clairvoyant  critic  —  who  had  warned  Manet  that 
he  was  the  last  of  his  line,  en  plein  decadence,  my 
painter  friend  pointed  out  to  me  that  the  camp 
followers  of  Cezanne,  the  sans-culottes  of  art, 
the  ragtag  and  bobtail  regiment  would  end  by 
disintegrating  the  elements  of  art,  all  beauty, 
nobility,  line,  colour,  would  be  sacrificed  to  a 
149 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

search  for  "truth,"  "decoration,"  and  the  "char 
acteristic,"  said  qualities  being  a  new  name  for 
ugliness,  ignorance,  vulgarity. 

"They  want  to  do  in  a  year  what  Cezanne 
couldn't  accomplish  in  a  lifetime,"  wailed  my 
friend.  "They  are  too  lazy  to  master  the  gram 
mar  of  their  art,  and  they  take  Cezanne  as  a 
model,  forgetting  that  he,  like  Manet,  had  dili 
gently  practised  his  scales  for  years  before  he 
began  to  play  on  canvas."  And  Henri  Matisse? 
I  asked.  Well,  perhaps  Matisse  was  a  "talent," 
but  he  had  received  a  very  sound  education,  and 
knew  what  he  was  about.  If  he  chose  to  pitch 
his  palette  over  the  moon  he  must  abide  by  the 
consequences.  So  Matisse,  despite  his  fumis- 
terie,  is  admitted  on  all  sides  as  worth  while, 
though  he  is  bitterly  attacked  for  his  volcanic 
outbursts  and  general  deviations  from  the  nor 
mal.  But  you  can  always  tell  a  human  figure 
of  his  from  a  cow,  and  the  same  can't  be  said  of 
the  extraordinary  productions  of  Picasso  or 
Picabia. 

The  catalogue  of  the  Tenth  Autumn  Salon 
shows  the  astonishing  number  of  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy  works,  which  does  not 
include  the  two  hundred  and  twenty-one  in  the 
retrospective  portrait  exhibition,  or  several  other 
minor  exhibitions.  Out  of  this  formidable  num 
ber  there  are  few  masterpieces,  much  sterile  pos 
ing  in  paint,  any  quantity  of  mediocre  talent, 
and  in  several  salles  devoted  to  the  Cubists  and 
others  of  the  ilk  any  amount  of  mystification, 

150 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

charlatanry,  and  an  occasional  glimpse  of  in 
dividuality.  I  am  in  sympathy  with  revolution 
ary  movements  in  art,  but  now  I  know  that  my 
sympathies  have  reached  their  outermost  verge. 
I  confess  that  I  can't  unravel  the  meanings  of 
the  Cubists,  though  I  catch  here  and  there  a  hint 
of  their  decorative  quality,  while  shuddering  at 
the  hideous  tonalities  —  strictly  speaking,  there 
are  no  tonalities,  only  blocks  of  raw  primary 
colour  juxtaposed  with  the  childlike  ingenuous 
ness  of  Assyrian  mural  decorations.  Massive  as 
is  Matisse  in  his  wall  painting,  he  sets  up  no 
puerile  riddles  to  be  demolished  by  the  critic. 
New  formulas  these  young  men  have  not  in 
vented.  To  recapture  the  "innocence  of  the 
eyes"  they  have  naively  gone  back  to  the  Greek 
frieze,  to  the  figures  on  Greek  vases,  to  Egyp 
tian  tombs,  to  archaic  bass-reliefs ;  they  are  des 
perate  in  their  desire  for  the  archaic.  Picasso 
proudly  asserted  the  other  day  that  there  are 
"no  feet  in  nature,"  and  some  of  his  nudes  seem 
to  bear  out  this  statement.  Not  to  be  natural, 
that  is  the  new  law.  Not  to  represent,  but 
interpret;  not  to  show  us  the  tangible,  but  the 
abstract.  New  mathematicians,  seekers  after  a 
third  dimension  in  paints,  these  young  men  must 
not  be  all  set  down  as  fakers.  They  are  deliber 
ately  flouting  the  old  conventions  and  missing 
thick  butter  on  their  daily  bread.  Sincere  some 
of  them  are,  apart  from  the  usual  wish,  so  dear 
to  the  budding  students,  of  startling  the  bour 
geois.  And  this  same  bourgeois  goes  to  the  ex- 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

hibition  and  holds  his  sides  with  laughter,  never 
buys  a  canvas,  and  disports  himself  generally  as 
did  his  father  before  the  pictures  of  Manet. 
Meanwhile  some  art  dealers  are  sitting  up  and 
taking  notice. 

Such  accomplished  artists  as  Desvallieres, 
D'Espagnat,  Mme.  Marval,  Flandrin,  Bonnard, 
Villeon,  Frantz  Jourdain,  Dezire,  Picart-Ledoux, 
Albert  Andre,  Mile.  Charmy,  Lucien  Stoltz, 
Valloton,  Maufra,  Maxime  Dethomas,  and  others 
do  much  to  redeem  the  weariness  aroused  by  the 
contemplation  of  the  Cubist  section,  the  galleries 
set  aside  for  the  "Searchers,"  as  they  are  called. 
What  of  that  terrifying  Woman  in  Blue!  What 
of  Mountaineers  Attacked  by  Bears!  Matisse 
is  not  at  his  best,  though  his  work  is  compara 
tively  clearer  than  last  year.  Those  three  flame- 
coloured  nudes  dancing  against  a  blue  back 
ground  are  very  rhythmic.  They  bring  into  re 
lief  a  red  bottle  entwined  with  nasturtium  leaves 
and  flowers.  A  pail  of  blue  water  in  which  swim 
goldfish  is  decorative.  However,  I  was  slightly 
disappointed  in  this  slim  showing,  only  to  be  con 
soled  later  in  London.  Mme.  Georgette  Agutte 
presents  a  remarkable  Japanese  interior,  very 
effective  in  both  colour  and  composition.  At 
tractive  are  the  plaster  heads  of  Rene  Carriere, 
who  models  the  head  of  his  mother  with  the 
same  divining  touch  which  his  father  manifested 
in  his  famous  portraits  of  his  wife. 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

II 

The  Post-Impressionist  Exhibition  at  the 
Graf  ton  Galleries  last  October  in  London  was  the 
second.  There  are  British,  French,  and  Russian 
groups.  Two  years  ago  the  first  show  of  the  so- 
called  Post-Impressionists  —  unhappy  title!  — 
scandalised  and  amused  all  London.  Clive  Bell 
says  in  the  catalogue  that  the  battle  has  been 
won,  and  to-day  Cezanne,  Gauguin,  Van  Gogh 
are  the  "old  masters"  of  the  new  movement. 
Roger  Fry,  well  known  to  New  York  as  art 
critic,  was  in  charge  and  he  told  us  that  the  idea 
of  the  present  exhibition  is  to  show  Post-Im 
pressionism  in  its  contemporary  development  not 
only  in  France,  its  native  place,  but  in  England, 
where  it  is  of  very  recent  growth,  and  in  Russia, 
where  it  has  liberated  and  revived  an  old  native 
tradition. 

"It  would,  of  course,"  continues  Mr.  Fry, 
"have  been  possible  to  extend  the  geographi 
cal  area  immensely.  Post-Impressionist  schools 
are  flourishing  in  Switzerland,  Austro-Hungary, 
and  most  of  all  in  Germany.  In  Italy,  the  Futur 
ists  have  succeeded  in  developing  a  whole  system 
of  aesthetics  out  of  a  misapprehension  of  some  of 
Picasso's  recondite  and  difficult  works.  We 
have  ceased  to  ask:  'What  does  this  picture 
represent?'  and  ask  instead:  'What  does  it 
make  us  feel? J  We  expect  a  work  of  plastic  art 
to  have  more  in  common  with  a  piece  of  music 
than  with  a  coloured  photograph.  These  Eng- 

153 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 


lish  artists  are  of  the  movement  because  in  choice 
of  subjects  they  recognise  no  authority  but  the 
truth  that  is  in  them;  in  choice  of  form,  none 
but  the  need  of  expressing  it.  That  is  Post-Im 
pressionism." 

But  in  practice  the  English  Cubists  and  Post- 
Impressionists  do  not  bear  out  his  hopeful  words. 
A  Mother  and  Child,  by  Wyndham  Lewis,  may 
be  at  once  a  "  simplification,'7  but  its  plasticity 
of  design  is  far  to  seek.  With  The  Dead  Mole, 
by  Etchells,  it  shares  honours  in  the  domain  of 
the  grotesque.  A  large  wooden  doll  holding  in 
its  wooden-painted  arms  a  wooden  baby,  to 
which  this  wooden  mother  is  giving  ligneous 
nourishment  from  a  wooden  bust,  is  as  "emo 
tional"  as  a  basket  of  chips.  As  for  The  Dead 
Mole,  it  will  be  a  joy  for  ever.  It  is  so  comical 
that  all  notion  of  an  artistic  formula  is  forgotten 
in  what  Henry  James  would  call  "the  emotion  of 
recognition."  The  looker-on  recognises  the  ab 
solute  imbecility  of  the  design  and  smiles  accord 
ingly. 

Symbolists  would  be  a  better  title  for  Matisse 
and  his  fellow-artists  than  the  meaningless  phrase 
Post-Impressionism,  for,  despite  Mr.  Fry's  belief 
that  they  aim  at  reality  rather  than  illusion,  they 
are  essentially  symbolists,  and,  like  the  Chinese, 
by  a  purely  arbitrary  line  seek  to  express  their 
idea  of  decoration.  I  once  described  music  as  a 
species  of  "emotional  mathematics,"  and  Mr. 
Fry's  "visual  music"  is  but  emotional  geome- 
trising.  At  the  best,  in  the  hands  of  a  big  man 

154 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

such  experimenting  is  a  dangerous  thing;  when 
employed  as  a  working  formula  by  lesser  artists, 
such  as  Derani,  Braque,  Herbin,  Marchand, 
L'Hote,  Doucet,  and  others,  the  results  do  not 
justify  the  means.  Even  Mr.  Fry  in  his  land 
scapes  does  not  go  too  far;  they  wear  a  gentle 
air  of  the  Italian  Primitives.  The  portrait  of  his 
wife  by  Picasso  did  not  shock  me,  for  only  the 
day  before  I  had  seen  hanging  in  the  National 
Gallery  a  head  by  Piero  della  Francesca,  pure 
gold  against  a  hard  terra-cotta  background. 
The  colour  contrasts  of  the  new  men,  while  harsh 
as  to  modulation,  do  not  offend  the  eye  nearly 
so  much  as  do  those  involved  mosaics  by  the 
Cubists.  What  does  Braque  mean  by  his  Ku- 
belik-Mozart  picture?  Or  Picasso  by  his  Buffalo 
Bill?  The  Woman  and  the  Mustard  Pot  is 
emotional  enough,  for  the  unhappy  creature  is 
weeping,  no  doubt,  because  of  the  mustard  in  her 
eyes;  certainly  because  of  the  mustard  smeared 
over  her  dress.  A  pungent  design,  indeed. 

Matisse  is  at  his  best  —  also  at  his  most  ter 
rific.  One  nude  sits  on  a  chair  drying  herself 
with  a  bath-towel.  You  look  another  way. 
Degas  at  his  frankest  never  revealed  so  much. 
Nothing  occult  here.  All  plain  sailing  for  the 
man  in  the  street.  Presently  you  cover  your 
eyes  with  your  hand;  then  you  peer  through 
your  fingers.  All  is  bald.  The  Eternal  Female, 
and  at  her  ugliest.  What's  the  symbol?  There 
is  none,  only  volume  and  planes.  Matisse 
models  in  paint.  But  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  his 

,155 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

Dancers  —  a  design  for  a  decoration  in  the  Palace 
of  Prince  Tschonkine  at  Moscow  —  and  you 
admire  the  bacchantic  rhythm,  the  pattern  of 
rose,  black,  blue,  the  scheme  of  contrasted 
colour,  the  boldness,  the  vivacity  of  the  design. 
It  is  wonderfully  rhythmic,  this  arabesque. 

There  is  strong  modelling  in  his  La  CoifTeuse; 
1  indeed,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  the  power  of  this 
painter  or  deny  his  marked  individuality.  His 
designs  (there  are  several  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum)  reveal  his  creative  rhythms,  and  if,  as 
has  been  said,  genius  is  mainly  a  matter  of  energy, 
then  Henri  Matisse  is  a  genius.  But,  alas!  your 
eye  alights  upon  that  grotesque  Conversation, 
and  you  murmur:  "No,  not  a  matter  of  energy 
but  pajamas."  Again  the  risible  rib  is  tickled. 
Picasso's  Nature  Morte  is  dead,  not  still  life. 
His  master,  Cezanne,  knew  how  to  portray  po 
tatoes  and  onions  which  were  real  if  not  pre 
cisely  emotional.  Two  pictures  are  by  Auguste 
Chabaud,  a  young  Paris  painter  who  lives  all  the 
year  in  the  country. 

His  exhibition  at  Paris  last  spring  won  for  him 
attention  and  praise.  His  design  is  large,  simple, 
virile;  his  sincere  feeling  for  landscape  is  not  to 
be  doubted,  though  his  colouring  is  rather  som 
bre.  A  road  scene  in  the  hills,  with  its  firm  sil 
houette,  and  his  sheep  leaving  the  fold  after  the 
rain,  is  rhythmic,  especially  the  figures  of  the 
shepherd  and  his  dog.  At  first  I  fancied  the 
sheep  were  moles,  then  tapirs,  then  cockroaches, 
but  they  soon  resolved  themselves  into  sheep. 

,156 

.*.: 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

Chabaud  is  not  given  over  to  paint  metaphysics. 
He  writes,  it  is  true,  but  he  writes  sensibly.  In 
art,  he  says,  we  invent  nothing.  Art  is  not  of 
yesterday,  nor  of  to-day,  nor  of  to-morrow;  it 
is  eternal.  He  mocks  at  the  words  classic,  ro 
mantic,  ancient,  modern.  Some  of  the  new 
,  crowd  might  pattern  after  his  wisdom.  The 
|  Russians  give  us  Byzantine  figures  in  hieratic 
attitudes.  They  are  monotonous.  And  in  the 
octagon  room  are  four  Cezannes,  a  painter  who, 
with  all  his  departures  from  tradition,  neverthe 
less  respected  the  integrity  of  his  design,  re 
spected  his  surfaces,  was  reverent  in  the  use  of 
his  medium.  Cezanne  is  a  classic.  It  is  diffi 
cult  to  predict  if  even  Henri  Matisse  will  be 
come  one. 

V 

LITHOGRAPHS  OF  TOULOUSE-LAUTREC 

A  human  ass  —  and  his  tribe  does  not  decrease 
—  once  made  the  profound  remark  that  he  never 
read  Dickens  because  so  many  common  people 
circulated  through  the  pages  of  his  novels.  We 
call  this  remark  profound,  for  it  illustrates  in 
the  clearest  manner  what  has  been  named  "the 
heresy  of  the  subject."  The  majority  of  per 
sons  do  not  go  to  the  theatre  for  the  sheer  joy  of 
the  acting,  do  not  read  books  because  they  are 
well  written,  or  look  at  pictures  because  they  are 
painted  artistically.  The  subject,  the  story,  the 
anecdote,  the  "human  interest/'  "little  touches," 

157 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

all  the  various  traps  that  snare  the  attention  from 
poor  or  mediocre  workmanship  —  the  traps  of 
sentimentalism,  of  false  feeling,  of  cheap  pathos, 
and  of  the  cheap  moral,  these  the  greater  public 
willingly  embraces,  and  hates  to  be  reminded  of 
its  lack  of  taste,  of  its  ignorance.  The  man  who 
first  said  "Give  the  people  what  they  want"  was 
probably  born  close  to  the  tertiary  epoch,  though 
his  fossil  remains  as  yet  undug;  but  we  are  as 
sured  that  he  was  a  mighty  chief  in  his  tribe.  So 
are  his  successors,  who  have  cluttered  the 
market-places  with  their  booths,  mischievous 
half  art  and  tubs  of  tripe  and  soft  soap.  There 
fore  we  select  for  his  courage  the  snobbish  chap 
who  found  Dickens  ordinary;  to  him  Millet 
would  have  been  absolutely  vulgar. 

The  cult  of  the  subject  is  warmly  worshipped 
in  America  and  England.  It  nearly  ruined 
English  painting  half  a  century  ago,  and  even 
to-day  you  must  go  to  the  Glasgow  or  the  Dublin 
galleries  to  see  contemporaneous  art  naked  and 
unashamed.  In  New  York  we  are  more  lucky, 
though  here  the  public,  always  prudish,  prefers 
the  soapy  surfaces  of  CabanePs  Venus  or  the 
oily  skin  of  Henner  to  the  forthright  beauty 
and  truth  of  Manet's  Olympe  —  now  known  as 
Notre  Dame  du  Louvre.  If  Dickens  had  made 
his  "low"  characters  after  the  style  of  Italian 
opera  peasants ;  if  Manet  had  prettified  his  nudes, 
censors  would  have  called  them  blest.  We  have 
selected  these  names  at  random;  Dickens  is  the 
idol  of  the  middle  class  (the  phrase  is  not  of  our 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

making),  while  Manet  fought  for  recognition  in 
a  Paris  not  too  easily  startled.  In  reality  he  was 
a  puritan  in  comparison  with  his  predecessors 
and  successors,  not  to  mention  such  contempo 
raries  as  Gerome,  Boulanger,  Cabanel,  and  Le- 
febvre,  men  who  painted  nudes  their  life  long. 
But  they  knew  how  to  mix  saccharine  on  their 
palettes;  Manet  did  not. 

But  what  would  our  friend  the  snob  say  if  he 
had  seen  the  original  lithographs  of  the  ill-fated 
Count  Henri  de  Toulouse-Lautrec?  Either  faint 
or  fight;  no  middle  course  in  the  presence  of 
these  rapid  snap-shots  from  life  by  a  master  of 
line.  The  subjects  would  be  revolting  to  our 
possible  case,  and  no  doubt  they  will  prove  re 
volting  to  most  people  who  mix  up  art  with  their 
personal  preferences  for  the  stale,  the  sweet,  the 
musk  moral.  Lautrec's  favourite  browsing 
ground  was  Montmartre,  the  Montmartre  of 
twenty  years  ago,  not  the  machine-made  tour 
ists'  fake  of  to-day.  You  will  get  a  prose  parallel 
in  the  early  stories  of  Huysmans  in  Les  Sceurs 
Vatard,  though  not  in  the  tinselled  glory  of 
Charpen tier's  Louise.  Lautrec,  born  in  an  old 
family,  was  literally  slain  by  his  desire  for  artis 
tic  perfection.  Montmartre  slew  him.  But  he 
mastered  the  secrets  of  its  dance-halls,  its  pur 
lieus,  its  cocottes,  its  bullies  and  habitues  before 
he  died.  In  Meier-graefe's  little  book  on  the  im 
pressionists  Lautrec  gets  a  place  of  honour,  the 
critic  asserting  that  he  "dared  to  do  what  Degas 
scorned.'7  This  is  a  mystification.  Degas  has 

,159 


MATISSE,  PICASSO,  AND  OTHERS 

done  what  he  cared  to  do  and  has  done  it  in  an 
almost  perfect  fashion.  A  pupil  and  follower  of 
Ingres,  he  paved  the  way  for  Lautrec,  who  went 
further  afield  in  his  themes  and  simplifications. 
If  Degas  broke  the  classic  line  of  Ingres,  Lautrec 
has  torn  to  shreds  the  linear  patterns  of  Degas. 
Obsessed  as  we  are  in  America  by  the  horrors  of 
magazine  illustrations,  by  the  procrustean  con 
ventions  of  our  draughtsmen,  by  cow-boys  of 
wood,  metallic  horses,  melodramatic  landscape, 
it  will  be  long  before  we  can  sympathise  with  the 
supple,  versatile,  bold  drawing  of  Lautrec,  who 
gives  movement,  character,  vitality  in  a  curve. 

It  is  not  only  that  he  portrays  his  women  of 
the  streets  without  false  sentiment  (profoundly 
immoral,  always,  in  its  results),  but  he  actually 
shows  a  solicitude  for  them.  He  is  not  the  ento 
mologist  with  the  pinned  bug,  as  is  often  Degas, 
as  was  often  Flaubert,  but  a  sympathetic  inter 
preter.  He  doesn't  make  vice  interesting,  he 
makes  it  hideous.  His  series  Elles  is  worth  a 
volume  of  moralising  commentary.  And  there 
is  a  certain  horse  of  his  —  it's  as  good  as  a  real 
horse.  His  lithographic  method  is  personal  and 
effective.  He  is  one  of  art's  martyrs,  and  for 
that  reason  has  always  been  discredited  by  those 
who  conceive  art  to  be  a  sort  of  church  for  morals 
and  the  sweet  retreat  of  the  perfectly  respectable 
professor. 


160 


VII 

NEW  PROMENADES  OF  AN 
IMPRESSIONIST 

I 

ART  IN  COLOGNE  AND  CASSEL 

IN  Cologne  of  course  you  go  to  the  cathedral; 
every  one  does,  even  the  Colognese  on  Sundays 
and  holidays.  If  you  ask:  What  after  the  cathe 
dral?  the  answer  invariably  is:  The  Zoological 
garden.  Thus  one  day  at  least  is  safely  tided 
over.  It  is  the  second  that  sends  you  to  the 
river  Rhine,  there  to  quote  Coleridge,  and  later 
to  the  Gurzenich,  and  if  you  are  industrious 
enough  you  may  gaze  upon  the  Moltke  monu 
ment  and  peep  into  the  Church  of  St.  Martin  and 
the  Church  of  the  Apostles.  There  is  then  noth 
ing  else  to  do  but  drink  Pilsner  at  the  Ewige 
Lampe  and  rejoice  that  you  left  Diisseldorf  and 
its  ugly  mid-nineteenth-century  German  art. 
But  there  is  another  attraction  in  Cologne  besides 
the  desire  to  escape  from  it  on  the  big  boat  that 
takes  you  to  Mainz.  It  is  the  Wallraff-Richartz 
Museum,  where  the  German  Primitives  may  be 
studied  to  your  heart's  content,  for  no  traveller 
seemingly  ever  visits  the  neat  little  gallery. 
161 


NEW  PROMENADES 

Meister  Stephan  Lochner  is  there  in  all  his 
glory,  though  both  at  the  cathedral  and  in  the 
Archiepiscopal  Museum  (the  Madonna  with  the 
Violets)  there  are  specimens  of  his  best  work. 
The  Madonna  in  the  Arbor  of  Roses  is  fairly  well 
preserved  by  sheets  of  shiny  varnish,  but  there 
is  not  enough  of  the  latter  to  obscure  its  pristine 
beauty.  The  galleries  are  arranged  so  that  the 
student  may  go  in  at  one  door  and  come  out  at 
another.  You  begin  with  the  triptych  of  a 
Cologne  master,  a  Crucifixion,  cruel,  bald,  and 
terrifying,  and  note  the  date,  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  These  masters  of  the  Ly- 
versberg  Passion,  masters  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
with  their  harsh  colouring  and  angular  drawing 
were  the  veritable  realists  and  not  their  succes 
sors,  who  introduced  the  qualities  of  lovely 
colouring  and  pulchritude.  But  the  old  fellows 
have  the  feeling,  the  poignant  note,  the  faith 
unfeigned.  There  is  a  Madonna  with  a  Flower, 
by  an  unknown  who  is  called  the  master  of  the 
Holy  Veronica,  which  might  have  come  across 
from  far-away  Italy,  so  mellifluous  are  its  senti 
ments  and  execution,  though  this  sort  is  rarely 
encountered. 

Stephan  Lochner  —  his  Dombild  is  considered 
the  finest  painting  of  the  school  —  is  addicted 
to  Last  Judgments  of  the  same  horrific  character 
as  Hell-Breughel's  fantastic  writhing  composi 
tions.  Comical  and  astounding  as  is  all  this 
creaking  mediaeval  machinery  of  redemption  and 
punishment,  we  prefer  the  serene  beauty  of  the 
162 


NEW  PROMENADES 

Madonna  in  the  rose-garden.  But  a  Jan  van 
Eyck  it  is  not ;  indeed,  these  chillier  Germans  of 
the  Upper  Rhenish  school  limped  perceptibly  in 
the  rear  after  the  Flemings.  Works  by  the  mas 
ter  of  the  Life  of  Mary,  truly  a  noble  crucifixion 
piece,  the  Crowning  of  Mary,  the  Madonna  and 
St.  Bernard,  the  Descent  from  the  Cross  —  same 
master  —  another  triptych  of  intense  power  and 
extreme  ugliness,  a  Martyrdom  of  St.  Sebastian, 
and  specimens  by  the  master  of  St.  Bartholomew 
and  the  master  of  St.  Severin  —  alas!  for  glory 
these  be  but  shadows  of  former  fame  —  enchain 
the  attention  because  of  their  native  sincerity 
despite  their  gaudy  tones.  When  we  reach  the 
portraiture  of  Bartholomew  Bruyn  there  is  less 
elevation  of  spirit  but  a  more  satisfying  prose  in 
the  matter  of  realism. 

Bruyn  (1493-1555)  is  best  represented  in 
Cologne,  though  he  flourishes  in  Frankfort  at 
the  Staedel  Institute.  Holbein  had  no  greater 
sense  of  reality  than  this  solid  painter  with  the 
bourgeois  vision.  His  portraits  are  charged  with 
character,  even  if  he  misses  the  finer  issues  of 
the  soul.  A  Lucas  Cranach,  a  Mary  Magdalen, 
captures  the  eye  with  its  quaint  costume  of  the 
lady,  who  is  modestly  covered  almost  to  her 
slender  neck.  She  stands  in  a  strong  landscape 
with  a  few  distant  hills,  and  the  hair  of  her  is  in 
ringlets  and  of  an  abundance.  Her  face  is  tran 
quil.  In  her  left  hand  she  holds  the  historic  box 
of  ointment.  It  is  a  charming  masterpiece. 
Another  famous  specimen  is  the  portrait  of  a 


NEW  PROMENADES 

young  man  by  the  master  of  the  Death  of  Mary. 
Hieronymus  Bosch  is  represented,  but  the  most 
striking  work  in  the  gallery  after  the  Madonna  of 
Lochner,  and  to  our  taste  much  more  wonderful, 
is  the  bust  portrait  of  a  man  by  Jan  van  Scorel 
(1495-1562),  a  Flemish  master  who  is  beginning 
to  come  into  his  own  in  the  estimation  of  con 
noisseurs.  You  conjure  up  the  august  name  of 
Holbein  when  looking  at  this  solemn-eyed  old 
man  with  the  pursy  cheeks  and  the  pet  dog  whose 
little  head  protrudes  from  the  coat  of  the  sitter. 
A  learned  pundit  this  with  marvellously  painted 
hands. 

Albrecht  Diirer,  Paris  Bordone,  Tiepolo, 
Francia,  Murillo,  Rubens,  and  Jan  Steen  are 
represented,  and  there  is  a  singularly  attractive 
Johann  Anton  Ramboux,  a  double  portrait. 
Among  the  later  Germans  are  the  names  of 
Julius  Schnorr  von  Carolsfeld,  whose  son  was  the 
first  Tristan  in  Wagner's  poetic  music  drama; 
Karl  Begas,  Overbeck,  Bendemann,  Boettcher, 
and  other  mediocrities;  Piloty  and  Boecklin  are 
not  missing.  A  strong  portrait  by  Wilhelm  Leibl 
and  Max  Liebermann's  finely  felt  self-portrait 
are  among  the  moderns;  Slevogt,  Peerat,  Von 
Hoffmann,  Eugenio  Lucas,  and  the  rest.  An 
unusual  note  is  furnished  by  Vincent  Van  Gogh, 
the  unhappy  young  Dutchman  who  cut  his 
throat  in  1890  during  an  attack  of  madness. 
The  head  and  bust  of  a  young  man  which  is  in 
this  collection  proclaims  the  painter  a  superior 
artist  to  his  friend  Paul  Gauguin,  a  portrait  by 
164 


NEW  PROMENADES 

whom  hangs  hard  by.  There  is  power  in  this 
Van  Gogh,  and  after  so  many  insipidities  of  a 
by-gone  school  his  vision  of  a  robust  reality  is 
very  refreshing.  Altogether  a  visit  to  this 
museum  is  recommended  to  those  tourists  whose 
interest  in  the  city  is  dominated  by  the  extraor 
dinary  Gothic  pile.  For  the  art  amateur  there 
is  no  other  place  so  plentifully  endowed  with 
examples  of  a  certain  phase  of  northern  Rhine 
art  as  Cologne. 

The  railway  journey  to  Cassel  is  very  inter 
esting,  quite  as  interesting,  though  not  as  full  of 
dramatic  surprises,  as  the  Rhine  trip.  After 
leaving  Cologne  the  train  winds  through  the 
valley  of  the  Ruhr,  crossing  and  recrossing  that 
river,  going  uphill  the  greater  part  of  the  time 
and  surrounded  by  scenery  that  recalls  New 
Hampshire.  You  pass  town  after  town,  busy 
thriving  towns,  with  such  unfamUiar  names  as 
Arnisberg,  Warburg,  Marburg,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  the  occasional  ruined  castle  perched  on 
distant  peaks  you  could  easily  fancy  yourself  in 
northern  New  England,  especially  if  it  is  a  brac 
ing  October  day.  Cassel  reached  and  super 
ficially  promenaded  is  bound  to  extort  a  cry  of 
admiration.  Americans  visit  this  delightful  town 
in  the  hills  of  Hesse-Nassau,  but  not  in  numbers. 
Berlin  with  its  theatres,  hotels,  and  noisy  out 
door  life,  and  Dresden  with  its  more  domesticated 
airs,  are  the  objectives  of  the  majority.  And  thus 
it  is  that  a  gem  of  a  city,  one  of  the  prettiest  in 
Germany,  is  best  known  by  the  Germans.  For 

165 


NEW  PROMENADES 

one  thing,  it  is  out  of  the  beaten  track;  New 
York  folk  go  to  Frankfort,  to  Munich,  and  not 
enough  to  Prague  and  Vienna,  and  seldom  think  of 
alighting  at  Cassel  when  en  route  to  Nauheim  or 
Wiesbaden  from  Cologne.  Nearly  seven  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea,  Cassel  is  pre-eminently  a 
summer  city.  The  air  blows  crisp,  dry,  and  cool 
across  the  mountains,  and  the  view  from  the 
Schone  Aussicht  is  one  of  the  most  captivating 
in  Europe.  Again  you  are  reminded  of  the  White 
Mountains,  without  such  a  giant  as  Mount 
Washington  towering  over  the  scene.  Naturally 
Cassel  is  not  archaic,  as  is  Liibeck  or  Rothenberg 
or  Nuremberg.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  very 
modern,  very  spick  and  span,  very  spacious  and 
comfortable,  with  its  Hotel  Schirmer,  as  good  for 
its  size  as  any  in  New  York;  its  big  Tietz  depart 
ment  store,  its  Royal  Hof  Theatre  and  opera 
house,  one  of  the  finest  in  Germany,  far  in  ad 
vance  of  the  dingy  old  opera  at  Berlin.  These 
and  the  numerous  palaces,  the  magnificent  Wil- 
helmshohe  palace  and  gardens,  only  half  an  hour 
away,  make  this  place  on  the  river  Fulda  with 
its  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  inhabitants 
a  magnet  to  those  who  like  modest  little  cities 
and  not  overcrowded  advertised  monsters  of  mu 
nicipalities. 

Your  Baedeker  tells  you  that  Cassel  is  an  im 
portant  railway  centre,  which  is  no  news  to  the 
student  in  search  of  the  picturesque.  For  him 
the  Karls  meadow  and  the  enchanting  panorama 
of  Wilhelmshohe  suffice.  The  vaunted  beauties 
.166 


NEW  PROMENADES 

of  the  Nymphenburg  at  Munich  and  the  trim, 
aristocratic  elegance  of  Versailles  are  forgotten 
in  the  vast  ensemble  of  Wilhelmshohe  palace, 
temples,  parks,  terraces,  fountains,  cascades, 
forests,  and  lakes.  It  is  all  in  the  grand  manner, 
this  royal  abode;  and  you  reflect,  not  without  a 
sigh,  when  the  fair  picture  unrolls  at  your  feet, 
upon  the  awful  results  that  would  follow  if  it 
were  thrown  open  to  the  mercies  of  our  own 
choice  Sunday  citizens.  But  the  public  knows 
how  to  savour  life  slowly  in  Germany,  particu 
larly  in  Cassel.  At  five  o'clock  every  afternoon 
the  knitting  brigade  is  seated  drinking  coffee;  ev 
ery  table  is  occupied  in  the  cafes,  and  gossip  is 
running  at  full  speed.  From  one  to  three  P.  M. 
the  Casselians  take  dinner  and  a  nap.  No  need 
to  go  to  the  bank,  you  will  be  gently  repulsed 
by  warning  signs.  At  night  the  theatres  and  res 
taurants  are  crowded.  Leisure  is  understood  in 
this  spot.  And  best  of  all  is  the  picture  gallery. 
Let  us  suppose  that  you  were  not  acquainted 
with  the  contents  of  the  solid-looking  though  not 
large  gallery  surrounded  by  flowers  overlooking 
the  Karls  meadow.  Let  us  suppose  as  a  lover  of 
art  you  go  up-stairs  and  suddenly  find  yourself 
in  the  Rembrandt  room.  What  joyous  amaze 
ment!  What  a  clicking  of  the  tongue  and  roll 
ing  of  the  eyes  as  you  enumerate  the  list,  note 
the  quality.  And  then  your  waxing  wonder  when 
you  behold  the  Frans  Halses.  There  are  seven 
in  number,  as  against  twenty-one  Rembrandts. 
There  are  eleven  Rubenses,  twelve  Van  Dycks, 


NEW  PROMENADES 

twenty-three  Wouvermans,  three  by  Antonis 
Mor,  think  of  three  canvases  by  this  rare  master ! 
while  there  are  precious  examples  by  Ter  Borch, 
and  a  fair  showing  for  the  Italians  and  other 
schools.  Only  eight  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pictures  are  listed  in  the  catalogue,  yet  we  can 
recall  no  gallery  that  holds  so  little  dross.  That 
doesn't  mean  that  every  frame  contains  a  master 
piece,  but  we  do  assert  that  the  negligible  can 
vases  are  fewer  in  proportion  than  in  most 
museums. 

Among  the  portraits  by  Hals  is  the  celebrated 
Man  with  the  Broad  Brimmed  Hat,  a  master 
piece  among  any  of  the  Hals  pictures.  Der 
lustige  Zecher  is  another  famous  Hals.  Then 
there  are  two  bust  portraits  and  the  portrait  of 
a  Patrician,  also  the  Two  Children  Singing,  the 
Boy  with  a  Lute  in  his  left  hand.  Outside  of 
Haarlem  there  are  no  better  Halses.  The  Rem- 
brandts  naturally  begin  with  the  Saskia  van 
Uylenberg,  his  wife,  which  is  as  notable  as  the 
younger  Saskia  in  Dresden  and  much  better  than 
the  older  Saskia  in  Berlin;  Rembrandt  at  his 
top-notch  in  the  matter  of  the  handling  of  tex 
tures,  jewels,  flesh  tones,  and  character.  Then 
follows  an  embarrassment  of  pictorial  wealth; 
the  Old  Man  with  the  Chain,  depicting  the 
beautiful  gravity  of  old  age;  the  study  of  an  Old 
Man,  the  Architect,  the  Sentry,  the  magisterial 
Jacob  Blessing  his  Grandchildren,  worthy  for  its 
style  and  composition  to  be  hung  beside  the 
Nightwatch  and  the  Syndics  at  Amsterdam; 
168 


NEW  PROMENADES 

the  head  of  the  painter's  father,  one  Hermann 
(or  Harmenz)  by  name,  with  his  Hebraic  linea 
ments;  then  a  bald-headed  man  who  looks  like 
Paul  Verlaine,  and  the  portrait  of  Nik.  Bruyn- 
ingh,  surely  one  of  the  most  ingratiating  pre 
sentments  of  virile  beauty  in  the  world;  the 
Soldier  with  the  Helmet,  a  self-portrait  painted 
with  magic;  the  touching  though  not  so  artis 
tically  important  The  Family  of  the  Woodcutter. 
Here's  a  list  that  might  make  water  the  mouth 
of  the  art  lover.  Amsterdam  and  St.  Petersburg 
(the  Hermitage)  excel  this  Cassel  collection  as  to 
Rembrandts,  though  not  in  quality.  An  excel 
lent  copy  of  Der  Biirgerfahnreich,  the  original 
of  which  is  in  the  possession  of  the  Paris  Roths 
childs,  is  to  be  seen. 

The  Rubenses  and  Van  Dycks  need  not  be 
gone  over  in  detail;  they  are  all  admirable.  The 
head  of  the  painter  Jan  Wildens,  by  Van  Dyck; 
his  very  Rubensesque  Child  Jesus,  various  full- 
length  portraits,  and  the  remarkable  portrait  of 
the  painter  F..Snyders,  quite  the  equal  in  quality 
and  preservation  of  the  same  theme  exhibited 
several  years  ago  at  the  Knoedler  Galleries,  are 
in  the  best  vein  of  this  artist.  Among  the 
Rubenses  are  Meleager  and  Atalanta,  Diana  and 
Nymphs,  The  Flight  into  Egypt,  Hercules  In 
toxicated,  Venus,  Amor,  Bacchus,  and  Ceres, 
and  a  large  portrait  of  Nicolas  de  Respaigne  in 
Turkish  costume,  a  very  unlikely  Rubens. 

We  should  like  to  relate  further  the  number 
of  good  things  we  saw  in  this  jewel  of  a  gallery. 
169 


NEW  PROMENADES 

Diirer,  Baldung,  Grien,  Altdorfer,  no  less  than 
six  genuine  Lucas  Cranachs,  Bruyn,  Herri  Met 
de  Bles,  Van  Orley,  Van  Scorel  (three),  the  en 
tire  Flemish  school,  a  superb  Ter  Borch,  the  Lute 
Player,  and  that  virtuoso  of  candlelight  Got- 
fried  Scalcken;  two  Jacob  Ruisdaels  (one  of  the 
best  period),  Millet,  Daubigny,  and  a  Troyon,  of 
all  painters,  and  an  alleged  Titian.  The  Carlo 
Maratta  portrait  may  be  better  enjoyed  at  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  for  it  is  the  original. 
There  is  a  capital  Ribera,  while  Tischbein  is 
worthily  represented.  A  Gainsborough  land 
scape  more  than  holds  its  own,  as  does  a  John 
Constable  nocturne,  among  a  lot  of  German 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  century  nobodies.  A 
portrait  of  Arthur  Schopenhauer  by  a  certain 
Engelbert  Goebel  reminded  us  that  Frankfort 
was  not  many  hours  distant. 

One  morning  after  wondering  at  the  bad  taste 
of  the  giant  statue  of  Ludwig  Spohr,  king  of 
German  violinists,  whose  monument  stands  on 
the  Theaterplatz,  we  drifted  into  an  exhibition 
of  the  Kassel  Kunstverein,  and  there  got  a 
foretaste  of  the  present  desperate  condition  of 
modern  German  art,  tainted  as  it  is  by  French 
impressionism,  Post  and  otherwise,  all  inevitably 
misunderstood.  Ernest  Oppler  of  Berlin,  Julius 
Schrag  of  Munich,  Karl  Thiemann  of  Dachau, 
who  has  talent  as  a  wood-engraver  and  pas- 
tellist;  Georg  Broel,  Hermann  Keuth,  H.  J. 
Koenig,  and  Edmund  Steppes  were  among  those 
present.  The  etchers  were  headed  by  A.  Baert- 


NEW  PROMENADES 

son,  a  Belgian  genuinely  gifted.  Among  the 
dead,  Haden  and  Rops  were  to  be  seen;  the 
coloured  etchings  of  the  unique  Felicien  Rops 
were  in  excellent  state  and  offered  at  surpris 
ingly  low  figures.  Zorn  too  was  in  the  group,  a 
group  that  made  one  forget  the  vulgarity,  brutal 
ity,  and  technical  ineptitudes  of  the  men  who 
used  oil  as  their  medium  to  express  the  absence 
of  temperament.  But  the  glory  of  Cassel  is  its 
gallery  of  old  masters. 


II 
ART  IN  FRANKFORT 

One  afternoon  we  found  ourselves  in  Sachs- 
enhausen  hardly  knowing  how  we  got  there. 
Sachsenhausen,  be  it  understood,  might  be  called 
the  Brooklyn  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  but  who 
ever  heard  of  any  one  reaching  Brooklyn  with 
out  his  knowledge?  On  the  left  bank  of  the  placid 
river  Main  this  suburb  is  approached  by  such 
broad  roadways  that  you  are  not  conscious  you 
are  traversing  bridges,  and  only  when  you  find 
yourself  staring  at  the  Dome  which  rears  its 
spire  over  the  spacious  streets  and  huddled 
houses  of  the  city  do  you  realise  the  transposition. 
This  naturally  if  you  take  the  tram-cars;  walk 
ing  gives  a  better  view.  But  if  the  compre 
hensive  tableau  gained  by  our  mistake  compen 
sated  in  some  sort,  the  excursion  did  not  help  us 
to  discover  the  house  where  lived  and  died  that 


NEW  PROMENADES 

amiable  old  gentleman  and  patron  saint  of  the 
suffragettes,  Arthur  Schopenhauer.  We  merely 
mistook  the  wrong  side  of  the  Main  for  the 
Schone  Aussicht,  therefore  No.  17  was  missed. 
Later  a  pessimistic  policeman  put  us  to  rights 
and  we  recrossed  on  a  bridge  lower  down  —  or 
is  it  further  up?  —  and  soon  found  the  gloomy 
old  building  where  the  gallant  philosopher  lived 
from  1843  to  1859  and  died  in  one  next  door  in 
1860.  Here  the  fame  denied  him  for  so  many 
decades  came  to  console  if  not  actually  to  mollify 
his  irritability.  We  were  not  duly  impressed  by 
the  commonplace  commercial  atmosphere  and 
were  more  than  glad  to  escape  to  the  Juden- 
gasse,  whence  sprang  the  Rothschilds. 

There  is  no  denying  the  beauty,  even  splen 
dour,  of  appearances  in  Frankfort.  You  easily  ap 
preciate  the  popularity  of  the  city  with  American 
travellers.  It  is  not  so  loose-gaited  and  gemiith- 
lich  as  Munich,  but  it  wears  a  more  smiling  mask 
than  Berlin,  which  puts  on  Prussian  airs  since 
some  flatterer  called  it  a  world-city.  Frankfort 
is  amiably  hospitable.  There  is  the  south  in  its 
manners;  the  climate  is  more  mellow  than  Berlin. 
The  magnitude  of  public  places  and  buildings, 
boulevards,  for  the  Kaiserstrasse  is  a  veritable 
boulevard,  the  monumental  style  of  the  opera- 
house,  the  Romer  (Rathhaus),  the  Royal  Theatre, 
hotels  and  churches  impress  one  with  a  sense 
of  solidity,  of  wealth  well  spent,  of  artistic 
taste.  Life  after  all  is  not  a  frantic  struggle  in 
crazy  excavations,  with  a  dynamite  obbligato, 


NEW  PROMENADES 

a  medley  of  dirt  and  din.  That  Germany  is 
prosperous  is  demonstrated  by  the  way  its  in 
habitants  spend  money  in  the  cafes,  theatres, 
and  opera.  In  Frankfort,  as  in  Berlin  or  Cologne 
or  Cassel,  you  fight  for  your  table  in  the  famous 
Kaiser  Keller,  and  no  wonder !  About  one  thou 
sand  of  your  fellow-beings,  chiefly  Teutonic,  are 
imbued  with  the  same  desire  as  you,  and  at  the 
same  time.  The  only  time  we  ever  saw  a  German 
excited  was  when  he  tried  to  get  a  seat  in  a 
restaurant  ahead  of  some  one  else,  and  at  Ham 
burg  when  he  struggled  like  a  football  virtuoso 
to  force  his  presence  into  the  opera-house  where 
Caruso  was  singing  in  a  novelty  written  by  a 
young  chap  named  Verdi,  the  opera  Ballo  in 
Maschera.  Talk  about  love  of  art! 

The  first  act  of  piety  of  the  sentimental  voy 
ager  is  a  visit  to  the  Goethe  house  at  Grosse 
Hirschgraben  23,  in  the  centre  of  the  town.  Here 
the  poet  was  born,  here  he  spent  his  boyhood. 
He  was  reared  in  comparative  luxury,  though 
according  to  our  modern  notions  the  house  seems 
rather  bare.  After  visiting  Weimar  and  the  gar 
den-house  and  the  museum  there  seems  paucity 
of  personal  interest  in  the  collection  at  Frank 
fort,  rich  as  it  is  in  memories  of  the  youthful 
Goethe.  The  same  old  guardian,  who  over 
twenty  years  ago  was  precisely  as  loquacious, 
said  that  he  remembered  our  name  but  forgot 
our  face  —  he  must  have  heard  this  bon-mot  of 
Oscar  Wilde's  —  and  did  not  fail  to  remind  us 
that  he  had  served  nearly  forty  years  as  cicerone 


NEW  PROMENADES 

in  the  historical  spot.  What  lies  he  has  told, 
what  " gulls"  he  has  mystified.  A  pet  anecdote 
of  his  is  the  following,  and  we  give  it  publicity 
because  we  never  saw  it  in  print.  Goethe's  son 
was  fond  of  wine  and  his  grandson  followed  suit. 
Once  in  the  memory  of  the  keeper  this  grandson 
of  an  illustrious  poet  came  to  the  Grosse  Hirsch- 
graben  but  stopped  at  a  certain  hotel  across  the 
street.  When  urged  to  visit  the  birthplace  of 
his  granddaddy  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
ordered  a  fresh  bottle.  The  curious  part  of  the 
story  is  not  the  wine  but  the  ineffable  laziness, 
or  call  it  Olympian  indifference,  of  the  man. 
He  didn't  care  a  hang  whether  his  ancestor 
lived  in  Frankfort  or  Weimar.  To  Weimar  he 
returned,  where  he  died  from  thirst,  or  was  it  the 
remorse  of  indigestion? 

In  Sachsenhausen,  about  ten  minutes  from  the 
heart  of  Frankfort,  is  the  Staedel  Institute  (please 
read  guide-books  for  the  history  of  Herr  Staedel, 
who  founded  the  institution  in  1816-17).  It  is 
an  art  gallery  pleasantly  situated,  overlooking 
the  river,  and  it  contains  many  noteworthy  pic 
tures,  not  so  many  Rembrandts  and  Halses  as 
at  Cassel,  nor  yet  is  it  such  a  tremendous  gallery 
as  is  the  Kaiser  Friedrich  Wilhelm  at  Berlin. 
There  are,  however,  Rembrandts,  Halses,  Velas- 
quezes,  Rubenses,  Durers,  Botticellis,  Cranachs, 
a  Veronese,  a  Jan  Van  Eyck  —  unequalled  the 
world  over  —  a  Holbein,  a  Vermeer,  and  a  fair 
sprinkling  of  the  Flemish  Primitives.  Modern 
French  art  has  not  been  neglected,  and  alto- 

174 


NEW  PROMENADES 

gather  the  seven  hundred  and  odd  numbers  of 
the  catalogue  make  a  brave  showing.  It  would 
be  manifestly  a  thankless  task  to  enumerate  the 
various  "best"  canvases  of  the  Staedel  Institute. 
A  glance  must  suffice.  Let  us  begin  at  the  be 
ginning,  aesthetically  at  least.  Despite  Dr. 
Benkard's  sketch  of  the  Rembrandts  it  may  be 
acknowledged  that  neither  in  quality  nor  in 
quantity  do  they  approach  the  Cassel  collection. 
But  they  are  interesting,  and  in  one  instance  rare; 
for  surely  such  violence  and  cruelty  as  are  mani 
fested  in  the  Triumph  of  Delilah  are  seldom  de 
noted  in  the  works  of  this  master.  There  are 
cruelty  and  obscenity  combined  in  his  etching 
of  Joseph  resisting  the  abysmal  advances  of 
Potiphar's  wife,  and  we  could  if  we  had  the 
space  mention  some  other  examples,  yet  none 
approaches  in  writhing  and  tumult  and  riotous 
colouring  this  Frankfort  picture. 

The  Blinding  of  Samson  is  horrible  to  gaze 
upon;  you  shudder  and  turn  with  relief  to 
the  portrait  of  Margarete  von  Bildersecq,  with 
its  sumptuous  modelling  and  its  homely  attrac 
tiveness.  In  this  composition,  dated  1633,  the 
painter  meets  Hals  on  his  own  field  and  almost 
vanquishes  him.  The  note  is  bourgeois,  com 
monplace;  there  is  mystery  in  the  atmospheric 
envelope.  Whoever  Margarete  may  have  been 
she  was  above  all  else  a  practical  housewife,  ad 
dicted  to  large  clean  ruffs  and  lace  caps;  fur 
thermore,  she  tramped  the  earth  with  solemn, 
solid  feet,  and  she  loved  substantial  food  and 

175 


NEW  PROMENADES 

drink.  Rembrandt  is  her  historian  and  every 
stroke  of  his  brush  depicts  a  trait  of  character. 
His  Saul  and  David  is  not  as  eloquent  as  the 
same  subject  at  The  Hague.  Now  that  Dr. 
Bredius  is  seeking  to  rob  Rembrandt  of  the 
glory  of  being  the  creator  of  Elizabeth  Bas  at 
the  Rijks  Museum,  Amsterdam,  —  the  most 
wonderful  old  lady  in  the  world  of  dreams  and 
paint,  —  it  would  not  be  a  bad  idea  for  the 
worthy  director  of  the  Mauri tshuis  at  The 
Hague,  where  he  has  placed  several  peculiar 
Rembrandt  discoveries  (?)  of  his  own,  to  visit 
Frankfort  and  study  the  Margarete  von  Bilder- 
secq.  He  above  all  other  experts  of  old  Dutch 
art  ought  to  know  that  Rembrandt  had  more 
than  one  string  to  his  bow  of  styles.  Elizabeth 
Bas  is  one,  the  Night  Watch  another,  the  head 
of  the  cavalier  at  Cassel  a  third,  the  etchings 
a  fourth,  his  landscapes  a  fifth, —  and  no  Her 
cules  Seegher  ever  approached  them;  think  of 
the  mystic  chiaro-oscuro  of  The  Mill,  —  his 
Biblical  themes  a  sixth,  and  so  on  —  a  Shake 
spearian  versatility  indeed. 

Of  the  two  examples  by  Velasquez  at  the 
Staedel  Institute  the  portrait  of  Cardinal  Borgia 
is  the  more  significant.  This  ecclesiastic,  whose 
full  name  was  Casper  Borgia  y  Velasco,  was  also 
Archbishop  of  Sevilla  and  Toledo  (1582-1645). 
His  is  not  an  unkindly  countenance,  if  you  are 
not  afraid  of  facing  the  consequences.  It  is  one 
of  the  painter's  masterpieces  of  psychological 
observation  without  unfriendly  comment  on  the 


NEW  PROMENADES 

facts  of  the  features.  Borgia,  according  to  con 
temporary  accounts,  was  a  man  of  intellect,  a 
lover  of  the  arts,  a  sober,  God-fearing  man  and 
one  not  averse  to  boiling  oil  for  contumacious 
heretics.  Sefior  Beruete  throws  cold  water  on 
your  mounting  enthusiasm  for  this  masterly 
characterisation  by  proving  to  his  own  satis 
faction  that  the  original  work  has  long  since  van 
ished,  the  pair  of  portraits  at  Frankfort  and  in 
the  Cathedral  of  Toledo  being  copies.  This  may 
be  true,  but  we  hasten  to  state  that  the  Toledo 
specimen  is  a  poor  affair  compared  with  this  vital 
canvas  in  the  Staedel  Institute.  If  Beruete  had 
said  that  the  portrait  of  the  Infanta  Margarita 
Theresa  was  not  a  genuine  Velasquez  one  could 
well  credit  him.  It  does  not  approach  the  Louvre 
portrait  or  the  one  in  the  Vienna  Imperial  Gal 
lery,  and  suggests,  despite  the  passages  of  paint, 
silvery  in  tenderness,  the  brush-work  of  that 
precious  son-in-law  of  Velasquez,  Senor  Mazo. 

But  let  the  heathen  rage,  there  are  two  por 
traits  by  Frans  Hals  that  throw  into  the  shade 
everything  else  in  the  gallery  except  the  Van 
Eyck.  A  man  and  a  woman,  the  latter  equals  in 
sharpness  of  veracity  though  not  in  charm  the 
Elizabeth  Bas  of  Rembrandt,  and  makes  pale 
the  memory  of  the  elderly  dame  accredited  to 
Hals  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  The  Staedel 
Holbein  is  the  portrait  of  Sir  George  of  Cornwall, 
a  stirring  composition  in  which  the  blacks  and 
whites  struggle,  although  with  harmonious  results. 
As  is  always  the  case  with  this  master,  the  hu- 
177 


NEW  PROMENADES 

manity  overshadows  his  technical  methods,  which 
only  means  that  he  is  a  consummate  technician. 
Two  Botticellis  are  not  of  overwhelming  impor 
tance;  one  doesn't  visit  Germany  altogether  for 
its  Italian  art;  nevertheless  we  wish  our  museum 
boasted  such  a  pair,  particularly  the  Madonna 
and  Child.  There  is  a  Veronese,  a  studio  piece, 
Mars  and  Venus  the  subject,  the  Venus  being  the 
same  model  as  the  Venus  given  to  Veronese  in 
the  Metropolitan  Museum.  The  posture  of  the 
god  and  goddess  is  different,  though  the  Cupid 
is  there.  Perhaps  this  is  one  of  a  series  of  panels. 
We  admired  the  slim  virginal  figure  of  the  Lucas 
Cranach  Venus;  the  forthright  sincerity  of  the 
Matsys  portrait  of  a  man;  the  purple  splendour 
of  the  astronomer's  robe  in  the  Vermeer;  the 
Veronica  of  the  Master  of  Flemalle,  Jacques 
Daret:  Diirer's  Job  subjected  to  the  mercies  of 
his  wife  —  the  first  advanced  woman  in  Bibli 
cal  history;  a  luminous  interior  by  P.  Janssens, 
nearly  equal  to  the  best  De  Hoogh;  a  Crucifixion 
by  the  Flemalle  master,  positively  pathetic  in  its 
expression  though  dangerously  near  that  path 
ological  point  so  powerfully  illustrated  in  the 
Crucifixion  by  Mathias  Griinewald  at  Colmar, 
and  the  Jan  Van  Eyck  Madonna  with  Infant, 
formerly  known  as  the  Madonna  of  Lucca,  after 
its  former  owner,  the  Duke  of  Lucca.  It  was 
acquired  by  the  Staedel  Institute  at  The  Hague 
from  the  collection  of  King  William  II  of  Hol 
land  in  1850,  and  it  is  the  noblest  Van  Eyck  in 
Germany,  notwithstanding  the  superior  historic 


NEW  PROMENADES 

and  artistic  interest  attached  to  the  two  panels 
in  Berlin  from  the  great  Ghent  Adoration  of  the 
Lamb.  The  Frankfort  Van  Eyck  glows  with  a 
rich  rubylike  warmth.  Its  decorative  quality 
almost  matches  its  devotional  character. 

In  the  same  gallery  as  The  Virgin  by  the 
Master  of  Flemalle,  celebrated  with  undue  praise, 
we  think,  by  the  late  J.-K.  Huysmans,  is  the 
mysterious  portrait  of  a  young  woman  which  so 
intrigued  the  attention  of  the  French  writer. 
For  Huysmans  she  was  both  exquisite  and  vi 
cious,  androgynous  and  enticing.  Who  was  she? 
He  hazards  that  it  might  be  Giulia  Farnese, 
called  Giulia  la  bella,  "puritas  impuritatis,"  who 
became  the  favourite  of  Pope  Alexander  VI, 
mayhap  his  daughter.  By  whom  was  she 
painted?  The  catalogue  says  Bartolomeo  da 
Venezea  or  Veneziano  (?).  According  to  Lanzi 
there  are  at  least  eleven  of  the  tribe.  And  ac 
cording  to  our  humble  opinion  the  portrait  might 
have  come  straight  from  the  brush  of  Botticelli. 
Every  line,  the  epicene  expression,  the  hair, 
head,  flat  bust,  hand,  above  all  the  delicacy  of 
the  fingers  and  the  shape  of  the  nails,  proclaim 
the  Botticelli  studio.  The  dominating  tonality 
is  a  wonderful  white.  Huysmans  was  correct  in 
calling  to  the  attention  of  the  critics  the  enigmatic 
character  of  the  head,  which  would  have  fas 
cinated  Walter  Pater. 

We  have  but  superficially  praised  the  contents 
of  this  very  attractive  museum  on  the  Main, 
where  one  encounters  a  George  Inness  or  a  Keith 
179 


NEW  PROMENADES 

cheek  by  jowl  with  a  Sisley,  a  Monet,  or  a  Hob- 
bema.  Catholicity  rules,  and  it  is  exceedingly 
refreshing  in  its  results.  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  add  that  there  are  several  excellent  Tisch- 
beins,  a  splendid  Terborch,  and  a  capital  por 
trait  of  Schopenhauer  by  Jules  Lunteschiitz, 
dated  1855. 

When  in  Frankfort  a  trip  to  Darmstadt,  half 
an  hour  away,  should  be  a  labour  of  love  to 
art  amateurs,  for  there  in  the  archducal  palace 
in  addition  to  a  rather  mediocre  art  gallery  is 
the  most  treasured  of  Hans  Holbeins,  possibly 
painted  in  1526,  representing  six  members  of  the 
Jakob  Meier  family  kneeling  on  either  side  of 
the  Virgin  and  the  Child  Jesus.  It  is  a  more 
finely  conserved  work  than  its  former  rival  in 
the  Basel  Museum,  the  Madonna  of  Solothurn, 
though  for  years  it  was  considered  a  copy  and 
the  excellent  copy  in  Dresden  the  original. 
The  restoration  by  Hauser  in  1888  cleared  up  all 
doubts  as  to  the  identity  of  the  Burgomaster 
Meier  (or  Meyer)  Madonna,  as  it  is  entitled,  and 
you  may  account  yourself  one  of  the  lucky  to 
have  studied  it.  The  excessive  heat  and  drought 
of  1911,  which  endured  seven  weeks  in  Darm 
stadt,  warped  the  panel,  and  the  lower  folds  of 
the  robe  of  the  Virgin  bulge  a  little.  Other 
wise  the  work  is  free  from  the  corrosion  of  time 
and  the  detestable  additions  of  the  restorer. 

There  is  no  evasive  handling  here,  yet  the 
human  soul  transfigured  by  religious  awe  and 
fervour  and  in  all  its  subtlety  shines  forth  from 
180 


NEW  PROMENADES 

these  solidly  modelled  countenances.  No  caper 
ing  chromatics  distract  the  looker-on  from  the 
beauty  of  the  few  large  tones  soberly  soldered 
one  to  the  other  without  a  hint  of  either  empti 
ness  or  huddling.  Humanity  is  present  in  the 
breadth  of  feeling  and  simplicity  of  expression, 
and  the  religious  sincerity  is  indubitable.  Der 
Dichter  spricht,  and  also  the  master  painter 
enamoured  of  lovely  surfaces  and  supreme  sen 
timent.  Impeccable  Holbein! 

Ill 
NEW  YORK  —  COSMOPOLIS 


When  Merlin  the  Magician  visited  Prester 
John,  as  related  in  the  veracious  chronicle  of 
Edgar  Quinet,  he  discovered  that  potentate 
dwelling  in  an  abbey  of  fantastic  and  conglom 
erate  architecture;  the  building  was  a  mixture 
of  pagoda,  mosque,  synagogue,  cathedral,  Greek 
temple,  Byzantine  and  Gothic  chapels,  basilicas, 
with  domes,  spires,  turrets,  minarets,  and  towers 
innumerable.  To  complete  the  intellectual  con 
fusion  of  Merlin,  he  saw  Prester  John  alternately 
reading  from  the  Vedas,  the  Bible,  and  the  Koran. 
With  what  consternation  would  the  victim  of 
Vivien  greet  the  picture  of  New  York  if  we  could 
fancy  Merlin  on  a  Staten  Island  ferry-boat? 
Once  within  the  zone  of  lofty  buildings  would  he 
not  snap  his  magic  wand  in  the  impotence  of 
181 


NEW  PROMENADES 

sheer  envy?  And  that  great  cosmopolitan, 
Stendhal  —  can  we  not  imagine  him  viewing  with 
angry,  contemptuous  eyes  the  towering  triumphs 
of  a  democracy  he  so  loathed?  The  master- 
builders!  They  are  of  our  city,  building  not 
only  homes  for  humans,  but  dizzy  hives  for 
supermen  —  the  American  business  man  is  your 
true  superman  nowadays;  his  idealism  is  de 
flected  from  the  region  of  poetics  to  the  plane  of 
reality;  his  reality  the  subduing  of  Things,  and  the 
making  of  them  a  symbol.  The  kings  who  erected 
the  Pyramids,  the  satraps  who  helped  fashion 
Babylon's  mighty  hanging  gardens  and  palaces 
that  reared  their  heads  to  the  skies  like  swans, 
those  rulers  with  monumental  undertakings  from 
Karnak  to  Stonehenge  are  paralleled,  nay,  out 
done  by  the  designers  of  modern  New  York. 

Twenty  years  ago  the  skyline  was  hardly  in 
spiring;  though  from  the  heights  of  the  Hudson 
the  view  was  then,  even  as  it  is  now  and  ever 
will  be,  magnificent.  Above  Wall  Street,  on 
the  east  side  of  Broadway,  was  a  congested  busi 
ness  district.  A  few  spires,  Trinity  Church,  the 
Tribune  Building,  and  the  World  Building  were 
the  conspicuous  objects  from  the  lower  bay. 
To-day  you  search  for  Trinity  between  cliffs  of 
marble;  the  World  Building  may  be  seen  from 
East  River  or  Broadway,  and  in  New  Jersey  you 
catch  the  golden  gleam  of  its  dome.  The  Wool- 
worth  Building  has  outdistanced  it  in  the  race 
skyward,  while  the  Tribune  Building  by  com 
parison  seems  of  normal  height. 
182 


NEW  PROMENADES 

What  a  difference,  too,  there  was  on  lower 
Manhattan!  The  Battery,  a  clot  of  green  as 
you  saw  it  from  ferry-boat  or  steam-ship,  was 
surrounded  by  a  few  buildings,  imposing  enough, 
yet  to-day  mere  pediments  for  their  loftier  rivals. 
Here  and  there  a  church  looking  like  a  sharpened 
pencil  protruded  from  the  background.  You 
could  see  churches  then.  Now  one  makes  pil 
grimages  to  them  through  canons. 

Survey  on  a  clear  day  our  new  skyline.  The 
low  sandy  spit  of  Manhattan  Island  which  our 
grandfathers  knew  is  thronged  by  extraordinary 
palaces  and  topped  by  the  Woolworth  Build 
ing.  The  position  of  the  Singer  campanile  is 
inevitable.  It  lies  at  the  centre  of  your  vision 
on  the  return  trip  from  Staten  Island.  The 
huge  ramparts  of  marble  aligning  the  lower 
island  are  waffle-faced  because  of  their  innumer 
able  windows.  The  City  Investing  Building 
cranes  ambitiously  beside  the  Singer  tower;  it 
makes  of  the  pair  a  hybrid  beast  of  architecture. 
Yet  from  the  Hudson  the  two  violently  con 
trasted  piles  blend,  and  if  there  is  a  mist  the 
combination  sets  you  to  dreaming  of  a  far-away 
exotic  aerial  palazzo  in  some  city  conceived  by  a 
John  Martin  or  a  Piranesi.  The  Hudson  Ter 
minal  buildings  overwhelm;  their  vast  spread 
suggests  not  alone  the  city  population  daily  har 
boured  in  their  offices,  but  also  a  sense  of  tre 
mendous  density,  size,  weight.  Following  the 
eye  we  see  the  Washington  Life,  the  West  Street, 
American  Surety,  United  States  Express,  Empire, 


NEW  PROMENADES 

Manhattan  Life,  St.  Paul,  American  Tract,  and 
Municipal  buildings.  At  first  the  general  effect 
is  grotesque,  denticulated,  a  jagged  row  of  teeth, 
with  an  isolated  superb  snag  on  the  Hudson 
River  side.  Honeycombed  with  eyes  are  all 
these  habitations,  eyes  that  watch  the  Old  World 
as  it  enters  the  New.  War  from  without  would 
mean  warring  upon  marble  cliffs.  Nineveh  had 
not  their  match,  and  on  their  miles  of  roofs  are 
gardens  which  make  the  description  of  Babylon 
childish.  What  a  fabulous  entanglement  of 
styles,  with  structural  lines  effaced,  of  bold  gross 
masses,  not  unlike  Benezzo  Gozzoli's  quaint 
Babylon.  To  shut  out  the  overmastering  vision 
you  turn  your  back  and  the  sights  of  Governor's 
Island,  Ellis  Island,  and  the  Goddess  of  Liberty 
reassure  you.  The  statue  is  still  as  ugly  as  ever 
and  her  torch  a  menacing  club  in  a  mailed  fist. 
It  commands:  "Work!"  Over  the  portals  of 
Ellis  Island  might  be  inscribed  —  (Dante  d  re- 
bours)  —  "All  despair  abandon,  ye  who  enter 
here"  —  for  New  York  is  not  a  city  of  Dis;  it 
is  the  mouth,  the  melting-pot  of  America,  and  in 
America  there  is  ever  hope  for  the  hopeful. 

On  days  when  the  wind  is  benign,  the  iron- 
coloured  clouds  a-curdle,  erect  steam-plumes  cut 
the  sky,  the  sun  stains  the  waters,  then  the 
sinister  battlements  no  longer  appal,  nor  does 
the  city  huddled  and  perched  behind  them  un 
pleasantly  excite  the  imagination.  Again  it  is 
atmosphere  that  tells,  atmosphere  that  makes 
from  the  shrill  architectural  dissonances  and  lace- 
184 


NEW  PROMENADES 

like  facades  a  new  harmony  the  diapason  of  which 
hums  through  your  consciousness  —  the  muted 
thunder  of  New  York.  Already  by  virtue  of  its 
happy  symmetry  the  Singer  tower  has  caught  the 
tone  of  time.  That  its  sovereignty  of  position 
and  height  has  been  wrested  from  it  was  to  have 
been  expected;  implacable  to  sense  of  beauty  are 
the  needs  of  a  growing  city.  Let  us  hope  a  newer 
architecture  will  throw  double  sixes  as  has  the 
lucky  Singer.  I  recall  the  days  when  Walt  Whit 
man's  "mast-hemm'd  Manhattan"  had  an  actual 
meaning.  Now  it  is  funnel-encircled  Manhattan, 
and  in  a  few  years  it  may  be  a  Manhattan  of 
aeronauts.  TuUio  Lombardo,  Bernini,  and  Chris 
topher  Wren  could  not  in  a  triple  fantasia  evolve 
such  a  pasticcio  as  this  island  town.  It  stuns. 
It  exalts.  It  is  inconceivable;  yet  there  it  stands, 
unashamed,  with  its  absence  of  rhythmic  archi 
tectural  values  and  its  massive  extravagances. 
Up  crowded  expressive  Broadway  we  go, 
resolutely  avoiding  arrests  before  reincarnations 
of  classic  Greece  and  Rome;  before  the  vision  in 
shallow  side  streets  of  public  exchanges  that 
would  not  have  shamed  the  Acropolis;  before 
the  gleam  of  sculptured  frieze,  golden  cornice, 
Corinthian  columns,  acanthus  wreaths  and  liber 
tine  arabesques.  Oh!  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of 
Manhattan's  shape,  with  its  head  of  a  monster 
saurian  showing  from  the  Jersey  side.  All  this 
polyphony  of  steel,  stone,  and  marble  is  so 
cramped  that  it  will  never  sing  its  glorious  music 
with  a  free  throat.  Space  has  conditioned  these 

185 


NEW  PROMENADES 

structures,  as  structure  has  conditioned  their 
material.  A  breathing-spot  formerly  was  old 
Trinity  Church.  Alas!  it  fights  for  breath,  en 
compassed  by  marble  giants.  Some  of  them 
might  have  been  transported  from  a  Brobding- 
nagian  Venice.  Their  capitals  are  exquisite,  and 
only  these  stony  precipices  pierced  by  windows 
tell  you  where  you  are.  Nevertheless,  Trinity, 
facing  Wall  Street  as  it  does,  retains  more  than  a 
moiety  of  its  spiritual  charm.  One  might  hope 
that  the  busy  brokers  and  the  hustling  little 
manikins  in  the  streets  would  halt  their  chaffer 
ing  when  the  quarters  chime  from  the  steeple  — 
as  halted  the  mirth-makers  in  Poe's  shuddering 
tale,  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death.  But  no, 
you  hear  the  lisp  and  silvery  clangour  of  the  bell 
in  the  steeple;  Wall  Street  pays  no  heed.  Only 
the  dead  in  the  churchyard  receive  this  benison 
of  tone. 

Let  us  pass  on,  noting  the  Trinity  and  Empire 
buildings  and  finding  ourselves  midgets  with 
upturned  dizzy  gaze  at  the  foot  of  the  Singer. 
Ernest  Flagg,  its  architect,  has  put  into  practice 
his  theory  that  the  new  type  of  buildings  should 
be  pyramidal  and  terraced  at  a  certain  height; 
the  tower,  thus  set  back,  gives  both  light  and 
air  to  its  neighbours  as  well  as  to  itself.  Whether 
or  not  a  halt  will  come  in  the  upward  progress  of 
this  city  one  dares  not  say.  About  1886,  as  I 
remember  it,  there  had  been  a  decided  lull  in 
building  for  some  years.  A  few  years  later  saw  a 
boom,  1900  another;  to-day  it  is  difficult  to  teU 
186 


NEW  PROMENADES 

where  our  Babel  will  end.  Already  the  Metro 
politan  Life  tower  is  threatened  by  the  plans 
of  the  nine-hundred-and-nine-foot  tower  of  the 
Equitable  Life.  No  sooner  are  fifty  stories 
achieved  than  sixty-two  are  contemplated.  And 
what  of  the  projected  tower  one  thousand  feet 
high  of  the  new  Mills  Building!  Or  of  that  im 
pious  proposal  to  build  two  thousand  feet  in  the 
air!  Is  the  fate  of  Babel  forgotten!  Certainly 
Mr.  Flagg  has  the  root  of  the  matter,  for,  what 
with  the  crowding  of  tall  structures  on  narrow 
frontages  and  the  increasing  risk  from  fire,  the 
future  comfort  and  safety  of  greatest  New 
York  may  be  problematical.  The  attempt  to 
vary  the  tone  of  the  new  buildings  is  successful. 
Terra  cotta  facades  of  colourful  sorts  are  em 
ployed  with  enhanced  richness,  and  the  purity 
of  the  atmosphere,  an  Italianate  purity,  brings 
out  with  a  sharp  definition  the  clear  lines  and 
tints  of  these  new  structures. 

Another  breathing-spot,  and  the  City  Hall  lies 
pearl-like  in  its  square.  What  a  joy  to  gaze  upon ! 
What  a  cool  draught  to  the  spirit  parched  by  the 
tophet  of  stone  from  which  we  have  emerged! 
It  is  hemmed  about  by  many  wonderful  struc 
tures,  the  Hall  of  Records  not  being  the  most 
beautiful,  while  the  Home  Insurance  is  the  most 
graceful;  not  to  mention  the  Municipal  Building. 
Then  follow  the  wriggling  vermicular  street  and 
the  white  suavities  of  Grace  Church  —  why 
waste  time  lower  down  on  mediocrities?  Union 
Square  is  achieved.  Of  the  far  West  Side  or 
187 


NEW  PROMENADES 

the  far  East  Side  we  need  not  speak.  Our  in 
genuous  friends  the  sociological  novelists  and 
benevolent  "shimmers"  have  told  us  all  about 
the  horrors  of  the  East  Side.  And  that  dis 
tinguished  observer,  Henry  James,  has  called  the 
Ghetto,  Jerusalem  Disinfected.  He  should  have 
chosen  rather  Tasso's  title,  Jerusalem  Deliv 
ered,  for  on  the  much  despised,  little  under 
stood,  fairly  comfortable  East  Side  the  Chosen 
Race  is  safely  anchored.  It  is  natural  that  the 
present  stupendous  New  York  offends  visiting 
Rip  Van  Winkles;  but  the  Socialist  prophets, 
why  has  it  failed  to  please  them?  What  more 
perfect  phalanstery  for  your  latter-day  Fourier- 
ites  than  those  big  buildings  housing  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands!  Why  doesn't  H.  G. 
Wells  see  that  here  his  dreamer's  dreams  are 
come  true?  Nothing  is  lacking  but  the  landing- 
stages,  the  big  aviators,  and  the  "all  aboard" 
for  Europe  or  Asia  on  the  sky-steamers.  How 
long  will  these  be  missing?  There  is  also  real 
ised  his  dream  of  a  population  toiling  in  the 
depths  for  a  privileged  few  and  a  unique  "boss." 
Yet  the  English  seer  when  confronted  by  actual 
ity  was  aghast,  possibly  because  the  fulfilment 
of  his  prophecy  appeared  in  such  questionable 
shapes. 

New  York  is  not  beautiful  in  the  old  order 
of  aesthetics.  Its  beauty  often  savours  of  the 
monstrous,  for  the  scale  is  epical.  Too  many  of 
our  buildings  are  glorified  chimneys.  But  what 
a  picture  of  titanic  energy,  of  cyclopean  am- 
188  ' 


NEW  PROMENADES 

bition,  there  is  if  you  look  over  Manhattan  from 
Washington  Heights.  The  wilderness  of  flat 
roofs  of  London,  the  winning  profile  of  Paris,  the 
fascination  of  Rome  from  Trinita  dei  Monti,  of 
Buda  from  across  the  Danube  at  Pesth:  these 
are  not  more  startling  or  dramatic  than  New 
York;  especially  when  the  chambers  of  the 
West  are  filled  by  the  tremulous  opal  of  a  dying 
day,  or  a  lyric  moonrise  paves  a  path  of  silver 
across  the  hospitable  sea  we  call  our  harbour. 


II 

Union  Square  is  altered  beyond  recognition. 
In  our  town  memories  like  rats  are  chased  away 
by  the  ever-rising  flood  of  progress.  There  is  no 
room  for  ghosts  or  landmarks  in  New  York. 
Thus  Union  Square  to-day  is  less  interesting 
than  that  pretty  coign,  Stuyvesant  Park.  More 
vital  is  Madison  Square,  with  its  prow  of  a  bi 
zarre  stone  snow-plough,  the  Flatiron-Fuller 
Building,  cleaving  its  way  northward;  with  the 
Giralda  tower  on  the  Madison  Square  Garden, 
St.  Gaudens's  Diana  of  the  Cross-Currents,  and 
the  memory  of  the  cheery  old  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel.  Badly  posed,  nevertheless  the  marble 
court-house  is  still  a  thing  of  interest.  One  of 
the  loftiest  buildings  in  New  York  blots  out  a 
section  of  the  eastern  sky:  the  Metropolitan  Life 
Building  with  its  tower.  Another  campanile! 
Beautiful  it  is,  not  because  of  its  stature  —  the 
still  loftier  Paris  Eiffel  Tower  is  an  iron  scarecrow 


NEW  PROMENADES 

—  but  because  of  its  lines.  I  watched  it  from 
my  uptown  eyrie  while  it  was  being  built;  saw 
its  long  legs  and  ribs  gradually  soar  into  space  like 
one  of  Wells's  Martians  on  their  tripods.  Down 
the  vista  of  Madison  Avenue,  its  side  streets  bar 
ring  with  sunlight  the  tracks  of  the  electric  cars, 
the  Singer  Building  lifts  out  of  the  ruck  and 
mass  of  the  crowded  skyline;  the  Flatiron  strives 
jealously  for  first  place  in  the  race  to  the  Times 
Building;  but  the  Metropolitan  is  the  lord  of 
middle  New  York. 

To  enjoy  the  delicate  and  massive  drawing  of 
the  Times  Building  as  etched  against  a  southern 
sky  —  now  ardent,  now  fire-tipped,  jewelled,  or 
swimming  in  the  bewitching  breath  of  a  sum 
mer's  day  —  one  must  study  it  from  the  north. 
A  silhouette  in  the  evening  —  and  often  like  a 
child's  church  of  chalk  lighted  at  Christmas  — 
it  flushes  rosy  in  the  morning,  and  during  the 
afternoon  the  repercussion  of  the  hot  sun  waves 
drowns  it  in  an  incandescent  haze.  The  fronds 
of  stone  ranging  below  it  support  this  bell-tower 
as  if  it  were  an  integral  part  of  them.  It,  too, 
aspires  northward  where  the  park  blooms  an 
emerald  oblong.  On  its  pinnacle  the  city  below 
wears  the  precise,  mapped-out  look  and  checkered 
image  it  has  from  a  balloon  or  pinned  on  a  land- 
surveyor's  chart.  What  a  New  York!  Clubs 
that  are  palaces,  hospitals  that  are  cities,  pala 
tial  theatres  and  churches  more  romanesque  than 
Rome  or  duelling  in  terms  of  Gothic  with  the  ec 
clesiastical  masterpieces  of  the  Old  World! 
190 


NEW  PROMENADES 

Why  linger  on  the  Great  White  Way  or  in  the 
luxurious  glass  houses  lining  and  lighting  this 
slippery,  glittering  region;  a  region  of  mediocre 
plays,  indigestion,  headaches,  and  the  moral 
herring-bone  of  dry  and  dusty  to-morrows! 
Rather  let  us  wonder  why  Washington  Square 
has  in  part  escaped  the  rage  of  the  iconoclasts. 
It  still  looks,  on  the  north  side,  like  an  early  novel 
of  Mr.  James.  Some  of  lower  Fifth  Avenue  is 
natural.  But  woe!  When  you  pass  north  of 
Fourteenth  Street,  where  are  the  mansions  of 
yesteryear?  The  pave  over  which  once  passed 
the  trim  boots  of  a  vanishing  aristocracy  now 
holds  a  multitude  of  Yiddish  workers  from  the 
ugly  factories  along  this  part  of  the  avenue,  men 
who  talk  in  a  harsh  speech  and  block  progress 
from  twelve  to  one  o'clock  every  week-day. 
Occasionally  Mark  Twain,  in  white  and  always 
smoking,  goes  by,  not  a  phantom  but  a  reality 
who  makes  us  believe  the  past  was  not  a  night 
mare.  [  I  speak  of  ten  years  ago.]  However,  if 
Mr.  Howells  can  admire  the  new  Rome  and  take 
it  in  tranquil  doses,  why  should  we  selfishly 
resent  the  destruction  of  our  pleasant  memo 
ries  to  make  way  for  such  alien  shapes?  Or  de 
spair  because  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  is 
rampant  in  our  business  and  political  world? 
Or  grow  excited  over  the  anatomy  of  the  new 
architecture?  Let  us  be  thankful  that  the  old 
stupid  bourgeois  brown-stone  will  soon  be  a 
thing  of  the  past;  that  the  new  business  houses 
are  seeking  a  note  of  individuality  in  their  con- 
191 


NEW  PROMENADES 

struction.  Nor  need  we  be  shocked  because  of 
the  anachronism  of  a  pawn-shop  under  a  basil 
ica.  This  is  the  New  World;  older  orders  are 
changing.  Why  not  architecture  —  and  man 
ners,  too,  in  the  fierce  St.  Vitus  dance  after 
the  dollars? 

Palaces  again  fill  your  eye  on  Fifth  Avenue 
from  Madison  Square  to  the  end  of  the  Park. 
Jewellers  who  transact  business  in  the  quarters 
of  a  Venetian  doge;  shopping  palaces;  book 
sellers  that  handle  an  army  of  books  in  a  space 
as  vast  as  a  cathedral;  banks  that  look  like 
Greek  temples;  hotels — the  Waldorf-Astoria, 
Astor,  Ritz,  McAlpin,  Vanderbilt,  Plaza,  Go 
tham,  Savoy,  Netherland  or  St.  Regis  —  that 
are  on  nodding  acquaintance  in  mid-air  with 
the  Belmont,  the  Astor,  the  Singer  or  the  Metro 
politan  buildings.  Wander  a  block  westward  and 
you  will  encounter  a  tiny  miracle  of  early  Floren 
tine,  the  Herald  Building,  a  challenge  of  beauty 
to  the  big  prosaic  department  stores.  Ugly  but 
useful  the  elevated  railways  that  go  spidering 
up  and  down  the  city;  while  in  its  bowels  we 
spin  through  a  labyrinth,  whether  to  The  Bronx 
or  Jersey  or  Long  Island  or  the  upper  West 
Side.  Another  halt  after  admiring  St.  Patrick's 
Cathedral  is  enforced  before  the  Vanderbilt 
mansion,  a  vision  of  an  Old  World  chateau. 
From  Sixtieth  Street  Arcady  begins,  the  Arcady 
of  multimillionaires  and  them  that  go  about  in 
sight-seeing  coaches.  Pass  the  Metropolitan 
Museum,  the  obelisk,  Mr.  Carnegie's  comfortable 
192 


NEW  PROMENADES 

house;  go  over  to  Riverside  Drive  and  from  the 
Soldiers  and  Sailors  Monument  look  down  the 
river  and  ask  yourself  where  there  is  a  lovelier  or 
more  impressive  sight.  Or,  gazing  northward, 
note  that  first  jut  of  the  Palisades,  like  the  pro 
file  of  a  sullen  monster  with  the  river  broaden 
ing,  hurrying,  glistening,  and  the  wide  fling  of 
the  panorama  —  little  wonder  your  vocabulary 
makes  for  extravagance!  Sound,  colour,  form, 
substance,  in  what  rainbow  region  is  locked  the 
secret  of  their  verbal  transposition?  We  are 
not  overproud  of  our  Palisades.  In  Germany  they 
would  rival  the  Rhine  scenery  —  but  here,  in 
America,  we  haven't  the  time  to  visit  them  or 
bestow  more  than  a  passing  word  of  praise.  The 
much-mocked  Hudson  River  School  of  landscape- 
painters  had  at  least  the  courage  of  good  taste. 
It  is  a  pretty  idea  to  see  New  York  as  a  sym 
bol  either  of  cruelty,  waste,  pain,  pleasure,  or  as 
a  haven  for  the  persecuted;  in  the  concrete,  not 
merely  the  New  York  of  the  impressionistic 
brush,  she  is  tremendous.  Yet  we  may  view  her 
symbol-wise  if  for  naught  but  mental  economy. 
The  city  lies  sprawling  encompassed  by  three 
rivers,  a  monstrous  Gulliver,  overrun  by  busy 
Lilliputians  who,  the  surer  to  subjugate  her,  have 
builded  bridges  about  her,  making  her  a  part  of 
Long  Island  and  —  underneath  the  river  and  the 
gliding  and  the  conquest  of  boats  —  of  New  Jer 
sey.  Soon  bridges  across  the  open  Hudson  will 
make  our  neighbour  State  next  door.  Bridges! 
Washington,  High  Bridge,  over  the  Harlem; 

193 


NEW  PROMENADES 

Queensboro,  Williamsburg,  Manhattan,  and  the 
Brooklyn  bridges  across  the  East  River.  Yet 
not  enough.  Some  day  both  rivers  will  be 
spanned  by  broad-bosomed  roadways;  New  York 
will  have  ceased  to  be  an  island. 

On  Sunium's  heights,  on  that  enchanted 
plateau  known  as  the  Acropolis  of  America, 
where  are  Columbia  University,  the  Teachers 
and  Barnard  colleges,  where  the  Cathedral  of 
St.  John  the  Divine  already  commands  the  city 
—  as  does  the  Sacre-Cceur  at  Paris  —  we  breathe 
another  atmosphere.  The  sense  of  greater  space, 
of  air  untainted,  of  a  milieu  in  which  broods  the 
sentiment  of  the  grave  and  academic,  of  repose 
and  absence  from  the  strain  and  roar  in  the  streets 
beneath  —  these  rare  qualities  endear  the  spot 
to  the  contemplative  mind.  The  College  of  the 
City  of  New  York  is  a  noble  group  of  dark  field 
stone  and  white  terra  cotta,  the  central  tower  of 
which  burns  curiously  in  the  sunlight  or  fades  in 
the  shade  of  the  clouds.  And  the  New  York 
University  on  University  Heights,  The  Bronx 
and  the  Hall  of  Fame,  stir  the  pulse.  Of  the 
Bronx  Park,  the  Speedway,  of  the  immense  tracts 
of  developed  territory  and  wide  boulevards  in 
upper  New  York,  soon  to  become  the  homes  of 
the  thousands  who  jam  the  subways,  surface 
roads,  and  elevated  railways  —  a  monotonous 
mob  going  south  in  the  morning,  north  at  night, 
a  mob  of  which  we  are  all  members  —  over  this 
region  we  cannot  speculate.  We  expect  some 
time  to  see  streets  and  terraces  in  the  air  to  re- 
194 


NEW  PROMENADES 

lieve  the  crowded  surface  traffic.     Cosmopolis! 
A  Cosmopolis  never  dreamed  of  by  Stendhal. 

When  the  softer  and  richer  symphony  of  the 
night  arrives,  when  the  jarring  of  your  ego  by 
innumerable  racking  noises  has  ceased,  when 
the  city  is  preparing  to  forget  the  toiling  day 
time,  then  the  magic  of  the  place  begins  to  oper 
ate.  That  missing  soul  of  New  York  peeps  forth 
in  the  nocturnal  transfiguration.  Not  on  Broad 
way,  however,  with  its  thousand  lights  and  lies, 
not  in  opera-houses,  theatres,  or  restaurants,  but 
on  some  perch  of  vantage  from  which  the  noc 
turnal  scene  in  all  its  mysterious  melancholy 
beauty  may  be  studied.  You  see  a  cluster  of 
blazing  lights  at  the  West  Side  Circle,  a  ladder 
of  fire  the  pivot.  Farther  down  theatreland 
dazzles  with  its  tongues  of  flame.  Literally  a 
pit,  white-hot.  Across  in  the  cool  shadows  are 
the  level  lines  of  twinkling  points  of  the  bridges. 
There  is  always  the  sense  of  waters  not  far  away. 
All  the  hotels  from  the  Majestic  and  Plaza  to  the 
Bshnont  and  Manhattan  are  tier  upon  tier  starry 
with  illumination.  "The  night  hath  a  thousand 
eyes"  surely  applies  to  Gotham  after  sundown. 
Fifth  and  Madison  Avenues  are  long  shafts  of 
bluish-white  electric  globes.  The  new  monoliths 
burn,  as  if  to  a  fire  god,  votive  offerings;  while 
the  Metropolitan  tower  is  furnished  with  a  light 
high  enough  to  be  seen  in  New  Jersey.  Fifth 
Avenue  mansions  seem  snow-driven  in  the  moon 
light.  The  synagogue  at  Seventy-sixth  Street 
and  Fifth  Avenue,  half  Byzantine,  half  Mo- 

195 


NEW  PROMENADES 

resque,  as  it  lies  sleeping  in  the  rays  of  the  moon 
light  might  be  mistaken  for  an  Asiatic  mosque. 
The  Park,  as  if  liquefied,  flows  in  plastic 
rhythms,  a  lake  of  velvety  foliage,  a  mezzotint 
dividing  the  East  from  the  West.  Sudden  fur 
nace  bonfires  leap  up  from  the  Brooklyn  side; 
they  are  purely  commercial;  you  look  for  Whist 
ler's  rockets.  Battery  Place  and  the  Bay  are 
operatic,  the  setting  for  some  thrilling  fairy  spec 
tacle.  Oh!  the  dim  scattered  plain  of  granite 
house-tops,  like  some  petrified  cemetery  of  im 
memorial  Titans.  New  York  at  night  loses  its 
New  World  aspect;  it  wears  the  patina  of  time. 
It  is  a  city  exotic,  semi-barbaric,  the  fantasy  of 
an  Eastern  sorcerer  mad  enough  to  evoke  from 
forgotten  seas  the  lost  Atlantis. 

Ill 

It  may  be  pure  fancy,  but  many  feel  as  in  no 
other  spot  that  the  planet  upon  whose  crust  we 
move  and  have  our  being  revolves  faster  under 
New  York.  The  tempo  of  living  is  swifter,  the 
pulse  beats  more  rapidly.  The  tumult  and 
alarums  of  the  day  are  more  exciting  than  a  cycle 
in  Cathay  —  or  Paris  or  London.  Vitality  is 
at  its  hottest.  We  are  like  a  colony  of  ants  dis 
turbed  by  a  stranger.  We  are  caught  in  eddies 
and  whirlpools  and  on  the  edges  of  foaming 
breakers;  we  are  dumped  on  densely  populated 
sands.  A  national  mill  seizes  the  newly  landed 
emigrant  and  like  a  sausage-making  machine 
196 


NEW  PROMENADES 

turns  him  into  a  citizen.  But  it  first  washes  his 
face;  in  America  cleanliness  is  next  to  patriot 
ism.  As  if  they  drink  from  some  well  of  forget- 
fulness,  the  newcomers  cease  to  suffer  from 
nostalgia.  Money  does  lie  in  the  streets,  despite 
contradiction,  for  those  who  know  how  to  pick 
it  up;  at  the  end  of  any  thoroughfare  a  fortune 
may  await  the  bold-hearted.  Childe  Roland  if 
he  came  to  New  York  would  not  be  heard,  so 
many  other  knights  are  blowing  their  horns;  be 
sides,  he  would  be  puzzled  to  find  that  Dark 
Tower.  Our  surfaces  are  glittering,  hard,  boast 
ful;  the  rhythms  of  our  daily  life  abrupt,  over- 
emphatic.  We  appear  to  be  seeking  some  un 
known  goal,  as  in  the  streets  we  seem  to  be 
running  to  a  fire  which  we  never  reach.  Al 
ternately  repellent  and  hypnotic,  New  York  is 
often  a  more  stony-hearted  mother  than  the 
Oxford  Street  of  De  Quincey. 

Of  course  it  is  money  New  Yorkers  are  after, 
that  mercenary  madness  reproved  by  Europeans 
though  indulged  in  by  them  on  their  arrival  here 
—  also  on  our  arrival  in  Europe.  New  York  is 
the  note  dynamic  in  the  world's  concert,  per 
haps  too  much  brass  and  cymbals  for  the  balance 
of  the  orchestra.  But  overtones  count.  We 
sound  a  few,  even  if  we  don't  wear  our  souls  on 
our  sleeves.  It  may  be  the  fault  of  the  climate 
and  perhaps  the  fault  of  the  millions  of  people 
ceded  us  so  freely  by  Europe;  yet  the  city  has  a 
soul,  even  though  it  is  as  yet  invisible  to  Euro 
pean  critics.  We  are  not  too  nice  in  the  conduct 
197 


NEW  PROMENADES 

of  a  clouded  cane,  though  we  make  good  citizens 
rapidly.  The  bite  of  the  salt  air  is  responsible 
for  our  too  responsive  nerves;  sun-bathed  half  the 
year,  our  very  thoughts  are  coloured  by  the  sun. 
We  may  have  too  much  temperament.  We  are 
more  optimistic  than  London  or  Paris;  optimism 
is  our  natural  vice.  As  in  Paris  or  London  you 
may  step  aside  here  from  any  of  the  main- 
travelled  highways  and  soon  become  lost;  worse, 
you  are  forgotten.  We  have  not  much  time  for 
social  intercourse  —  remember,  we  speak  of  the 
majority.  Individuality  is  gained,  but  at  the 
loss  of  many  desirable  things.  That  is  an  old 
joke,  though  more  fact  than  fiction,  about  New 
Yorkers  living  in  the  same  apartment  house  and 
not  discovering  until  years  afterward  that  they 
are  old  friends.  There  is  little  leisure  to  culti 
vate  the  minor  graces.  We  fly  at  our  music,  at 
our  theatres  and  pictures  as  we  fly  after  a  tip  on 
stocks.  We  bolt  new  ideas  and  invent  new  relig 
ions  every  season  to  match  the  gowns  and  hats 
of  our  wives.  We  swallow  Beethoven  and  cry 
What  next?  Wagner  is  speedily  engulfed  and 
we  cry  for  Richard  Strauss.  After  he  has  gone 
we  try  French  and  Italian  sweetmeats.  Ibsen 
is  an  old  story,  Maeterlinck  a  mere  fable.  De 
bussy  begins  to  tire.  What  next?  There  must 
always  be  a  "next"  in  New  York. 

The  crowd  ever  marching  on  heedless  heels 
passes  in  all  its  motley.  Possibly  a  man  with  a 
green  face  might  make  it  pause,  but  we  doubt  it. 
Poor  Baudelaire  with  his  hair  dyed  green  would 


NEW  PROMENADES 

not  have  had  a  chance.  Every  nationality  on 
the  globe  traverses  our  streets  —  every  national 
ity,  with  the  native-born  New  Yorker  in  the 
minority.  Are  there  any  more  New  Yorkers? 
The  Italian,  Slavic,  Hebraic  types  predominate 
where  once  Irish,  German,  and  American  ruled. 

You  can't  lounge  in  a  treeless  city.  The  in 
tensity  of  life,  its  futile  intensity,  prevents  a  man 
from  assuming  the  attitude  of  a  looker  on  in 
Vienna.  We  boast  no  dilettanti.  To  catch  a 
glimpse  of  one's  submerged  soul  one  must  enter 
some  church  where,  away  from  the  heat  of  the 
race,  you  can  overhear  yourself.  Do  I  exag 
gerate?  But  then  every  one  does  in  New  York. 
It  is  part  of  the  game  to  be  in  a  terrible  hurry  to 
go  somewhere,  anywhere  out  of  the  quiet.  The 
temper  is  the  ironically  gay  rather  than  the 
cheerfully  cynical.  You  see  no  old  women;  no 
grandmothers  make  a  sweet  picture  for  tired 
eyes.  All  the  women  have  grown  young;  all  ex 
cept  the  young  women. 

There  are  few  timid  backwaters  left  for  sen 
sitive  persons  who  dislike  the  glare  of  modern 
traffic  —  backwaters  such  as  you  discern  in  old 
Chelsea  or  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine.  Young 
America  insists  on  eating  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  brass  band  and  in  the  open  market-place. 
The  antique  and  intimate  chop-houses,  the  half 
way  uptown  stopping-off  places,  the  cosey  liquid 
life-saving  stations  have  been  swept  away  — 
gone  with  the  crooked  streets  and  beckoning 
trees.  The  nuance  is  missing  in  our  crushing  life 
199 


NEW  PROMENADES 

—  the  nuance  which  alone  makes  existence  toler 
able.  With  an  over-developed  sense  of  national 
continuity  we  assume  ourselves  to  be  "Central" 
in  the  cosmos.  Ring  us  up  from  Persia  and  we 
will  answer  you  quicker  than  a  call  from  Phila 
delphia;  which  is  a  trait  of  vanity  undeniable. 
On  the  other  hand  foreign  fault-finders  no  longer 
annoy.  We  may  grumble  good-naturedly  over 
them,  but  they  are  soon  forgotten.  New  York 
is  as  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners  for  the 
man  who  has  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  mil 
lionaire.  In  that  she  is  pragmatic.  Work,  that 
you  may  earn  money  to  spend  recklessly !  Other 
wise  go  your  ways.  Yet,  despite  all  our  hot  zest 
in  the  acquisition  of  money,  who  really  cares  for 
the  unimportant  millionaire  here?  An  enormous 
fund  of  indifference  exists  at  the  base  of  the 
local  consciousness;  at  times  it  borders  on  in 
humanity.  New  York  is  a  Sphinx  which  always 
asks  questions  but  forgets  to  listen  to  the  answer. 
The  Time  Spirit  sports  the  guise  of  a  building 
contractor.  In  Europe  the  old  humbug  and 
Janus-faced  illusionist  is  supposed  to  be  more 
poetic.  Hydra-headed  is  this  monster  as  an 
Asiatic  deity,  but  in  America  it  moulds  itself  to 
popular  opinion  instead  of  controlling  it. 

Yes,  we  lack  shadow  in  our  local  picture  — 
spiritual  shadow;  though  on  the  physical  plane, 
as  our  theosophical  brethren  would  say,  there  is 
too  much  shade  —  especially  in  those  windy 
downtown  borings  called  streets.  We  are  all 
foreground,  without  much  middle  distance  and 
200 


NEW  PROMENADES 

hardly  any  perspective.  Our  tones  are  too  brill 
iant,  but  our  national  canvas  is  sound. 

At  present  our  architects  have  hitched  their 
house  to  a  star.  They  plan  upward.  They  see 
their  art  as  a  tower,  and  a  city  of  towers  we  are 
bound  to  become.  The  leit-motiven  of  the  New 
York  architect  are  wind  velocities  and  bearing 
strains  rather  than  Attic  beauty.  His  head  is 
figuratively  in  the  clouds.  The  ideal  building  is 
conceived  under  the  rubric  of  base,  shaft,  capital; 
in  a  word,  the  tower.  Our  architecture  is  stately, 
graceful,  crazy,  and  mediocre;  but  whether  Pal- 
ladian  or  Baroque, or  German,  English,  or  French 
Renaissance,  modified  Gothic  or  like  the  eclectic 
abbey  of  Prester  John,  it  is  as  it  must  be.  A 
hundred  styles  are  in  the  air  clamouring  for 
recognition;  a  reckless  architectural  improvision, 
heaven-storming  at  times,  evokes  the  image  of  a 
demon-like  Rops's  Sower  or  of  that  frolicsome 
devil  from  Madrid  called  Asmodeus,  who  stalks 
across  the  island  dropping  here  a  note,  there  a 
chord,  here  a  scale,  there  an  arpeggio,  the  full 
fulminating  battery;  yet  when  the  smoke  and 
noise  made  by  his  dissonant  splinters  of  tone 
clear  away  we  discern  a  strange  harmony  in  the 
scattered  designs.  So  it  is  with  our  city  —  ugly, 
heterogeneous,  disquieting,  and  huge. 

And  since  the  foregoing  was  written,  a  few 
years  ago,  what  changes !  The  Woolworth  struct 
ure,  tallest  of  all;  the  two  magnificent  stations 
of  the  Pennsylvania  and  New  York  Central 
railways;  the  Municipal  building;  the  new  Po- 
201 


NEW  PROMENADES 

lice  Headquarters;  the  New,  now  the  Century, 
Theatre;  new  bridges,  new  hotels;  the  night 
skyline,  too,  how  it  has  altered  so  that  no  mu 
nicipal  spectacle  in  Europe  can  vie  with  the 
vast  numbers  of  lights  atop  of  hotels,  theatres, 
in  the  parks,  on  the  bridges,  and  blazing  in 
open  squares.  The  Art  Museum  has  a  new  front 
age.  The  obverse  side  of  the  picture  is  the  daily 
destruction  of  venerable  buildings,  the  trans 
formation  of  private  residences,  literally  palaces, 
into  hideous  loft  buildings,  and  the  consequent 
spoiling  of  that  once  royal  street,  Fifth  Avenue, 
now  become  the  strolling  ground  for  an  anony 
mous  herd  of  toilers  from  the  Old  World. 

Notwithstanding  its  exuberance,  its  crudities 
and  cruelties,  this  city  is  the  core  of  the  uni 
verse  for  those  who  have  once  submitted  to  her 
sorceries.  And  might  not  James  Russell  Lowell 
have  meant  New  York  when  he  sang: 

"  Strange  new  world,  that  yit  wast  never  young, 
Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires  in  their  brains." 

IV 

ENGLISH  MASTERS  IN  THE  COLLECTION 
OF  JOHN  HOWARD  McFADDEN 

The  psychology  of  the  art  collector  has  been 
studied  by  great  writers  from  Balzac  to  Henry 
James.   Benvenuto  Cellini  wrote  himself  down  a 
202 


NEW  PROMENADES 

virtuoso  as  well  as  a  scoundrel  in  his  incompara 
ble  memoirs,  and  we  recall  a  half-forgotten  tale 
by  Philip  Hale  (not  the  painter,  but  the  music- 
critic  of  Boston)  in  which  a  sort  of  Jack  the 
Ripper  figures  as  a  passionate  amateur  of  art. 
Murder  and  suicide  as  fine  arts  have  had  their 
possibilities  exploited  by  De  Quincey  and  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  Balzac's  collectors  are  either 
semi-maniacs  or  demi-idiots;  the  Frenchman 
always  believed  in  high  lights  and  heavy  shad 
ows.  In  the  many  stories  of  Mr.  James  which 
delineate  collectors  these  personages  are  for  the 
most  part  natural  and  reasonable.  Each  one  has 
his  particular  tic,  but  he  does  not  wear  his  mania 
abroad.  Nevertheless  the  lover  of  art  is  a  normal 
being.  He  should  not  be  classed  among  those  we 
call  in  America  "cranks."  If  he  buys  from  sheer 
vanity  there  are  worse  ways  of  parting  a  fool  from 
his  money.  If  he  collects  from  sheer  love  of  a 
master,  as  does  nowadays  M.  Pellerin  in  Paris, 
or  of  a  period,  like  Archer  M.  Huntington,  then 
he  is  to  be  envied.  Such  collections  as  the  Mor 
gan,  the  Frick,  the  John  G.  Johnson  are  catholic 
in  their  variety;  different  schools  are  represented. 
Such  a  collection  as  that  of  John  Howard 
McFadden,  of  Philadelphia,  is  small,  choice, 
and  aims  at  the  assemblage  of  one  school.  To 
have  succeeded  thoroughly  in  one  thing  is  to 
have  achieved  success.  Mr.  McFadden  ought 
to  be  a  happy  man.  He  has  succeeded  in  his 
artistic  adventure.  We  once  declared,  we  hope 
not  cynically,  that  in  the  heart  of  every  collector 
203 


NEW  PROMENADES 

there  might  be  found  a  bargain  counter.     But 
this  Philadelphia  collector  is  an  exception. 

He  lives  in  his  own  gallery,  the  pictures  of 
which  are  practically  scattered  over  the  walls  of 
his  home  facing  Rittenhouse  Square,  and  few 
men  enjoy  the  companionship  of  beloved  can 
vases  more  than  he.  We  dislike  that  smug  phrase 
of  the  art  dealer  who,  after  showing  you  some 
sentimental  smudge,  insinuatingly  adds:  "Ah! 
Now  there's  a  picture  you  could  live  with,  "mean 
ing  that  its  poor,  puling  colour  and  outlines  will 
not  offend  the  eye  simply  because  they  make  no 
impression  upon  the  retinal  memory.  Show  the 
average  potential  picture  purchaser  a  strong,  a 
masculine  work  of  art  and  he  shivers.  What,  he 
asks  himself,  that  harsh,  ugly  Manet  on  my  walls, 
hanging  near  my  beloved  Bouguereau  or  my  Jules 
Breton?  Never!  And  my  new  pink  draperies  — 
the  harmony  of  my  drawing-room  would  be  de 
stroyed  for  ever.  This  type  of  collector  is  quite 
right  in  his  surmise.  Manet,  a  taste  for  whom 
is  a  touchstone  for  imbeciles,  brings  a  breath  of 
fresh  air  into  those  abodes  of  musk-scented  art. 
Millet  earlier  in  the  century  aroused  the  same 
protest.  He  was  too  natural  and  loved  powerful 
uneducated  shepherds  instead  of  Venuses  or 
Madonnas  painted  in  cold  cream  with  a  fat  vo 
luptuous  brush;  or  else  the  eternal  tittle-tattle 
anecdotage  of  the  studio  genre  picture.  The  im 
pressionists  met  with  the  same  reception,  and  as 
to-day  they  are  already  "old  hat"  the  neo- 
impressionists  are  become  the  sacrificial  goats  of 
204 


NEW  PROMENADES 

contemporary  art.  The  truth  is  that  you  can 
live  near  all  good  art  and  literally  grow  with  it 
as  you  understand  and  love  it. 

Now  we  do  not  know  whether  Mr.  McFadden 
cares  very  much  for  latter-day  manifestations  in 
paint,  but  we  assume  he  does  not  from  the  very 
nature  of  his  beautiful  collection  of  English 
masters.  He  frankly  avers  that  he  does  not 
understand  early  Florentine  and  that  there  is 
much  in  Whistler  that  does  not  appeal  to  him. 
Some  Celtic  blood  in  him  makes  him  more  at 
home  with  the  characters  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
or  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  than  with  those  of 
Dante  or  Botticelli.  So  you  are  not  surprised 
to  find  in  his  dining-room  a  famous  canvas  by 
Turner,  the  Burning  of  the  House  of  Parlia 
ment,  which  was  shown  here  for  a  short  time  at 
the  Knoedler  Galleries.  It  is  one  of  the  master 
pieces  of  the  great  Englishman  and  not  in  his 
rotten-ripe  manner;  the  incandescent  conflagra 
tion,  the  bridge,  the  river  are  in  Turner's  opu 
lent  vein.  How  much  French  impressionism 
owes  him,  beginning  with  MonticeUi  and  not  yet 
ended,  may  be  noticed  in  this  work.  The  new 
McFadden  Raeburn,  dated  1756,  is  a  portrait  of 
Master  John  Campbell  of  Saddell,  a  youth  said 
to  have  possessed  a  genius  for  lightning  calcu 
lation.  Another  novelty  is  a  large  landscape  by 
John  Linnell  showing  a  storm  about  to  break  over 
a  heath ;  the  lightning  zigzags  down  the  threaten 
ing  sky,  some  belated  people  accompanied  by  a 
dog  are  rushing  to  shelter,  the  animal  well  in 
205 


NEW  PROMENADES 

the  van.  An  honest  work  of  a  conscientious 
artist. 

But  the  Gainsborough  landscape  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room  is  something  far  better.  Char 
acteristic  Gainsborough,  it  is  almost  matched  in 
interest  by  George  Morland's  Manchester  Coach, 
though  not  quite.  Miss  Nelthorpe  and  Miss 
West,  depicted  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  do 
not  exhaust  the  treasures  of  this  room,  for  over 
a  door  is  a  study  by  Romney  of  Lady  Hamilton, 
one  of  the  many  —  there  are  said  to  be  forty-six 
pictures  of  her  —  he  hastily  brushed  in,  an  in 
spired  presentment,  not  lacking  a  touch  of  the 
tragic  with  the  flying  locks,  eyes  dramatically 
upturned,  the  modelling  firm  and  sweet.  We 
have  seen  other  presentments  of  this  friend  of 
Nelson,  but  few  more  sincere  or  more  skilful. 

Around  the  halls,  which  could  house  a  church, 
we  note  two  tall  William  Dobsons,  a  Richard 
Wilson,  a  lifelike  bust  portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
by  Sir  J.  Watson  Gordon,  Romney's  John  Wes 
ley,  the  head  and  face  of  whom,  with  its  gentle, 
meek  expression,  might  pass  for  Abbe  Fenelon's; 
a  dashing  Raeburn,  a  Lawrence  and  the  portrait 
of  Edmund  Burke  by  Reynolds.  You  encounter 
two  David  Coxes  of  fine  quality  on  the  way  to 
the  library,  in  which  latter  place  you  will  be  em 
barrassed  by  riches.  There  hangs  the  sumptuous 
Constable  entitled  The  Lock,  a  glorious  reproach 
to  certain  experts  who  have  labelled  an  inferior 
copy  in  this  city  as  a  genuine  Constable;  there 
is  an  old  Crome  of  rare  interest,  The  Blacksmith 
Shop,  near  Hingham,  Norfolk,  exhibited  1808 
206 


NEW  PROMENADES 

in  London.  Mrs.  Dorothy  Champigny-Cres- 
pigny  is  portrayed  by  Romney,  and  there  is  Lady 
Rodney  by  Gainsborough,  also  Mrs.  Crouch  by 
Romney;  Lawrence  and  Copley  are  in  this  mel 
low  concert  of  singing  canvases.  And  remember, 
in  reeling  off  these  names  so  glibly  we  do  not 
mean  the  Raeburns,  Romneys,  Gainsboroughs, 
Lawrences,  Sir  Joshuas,  or  Turners  of  commerce. 
Every  example  is  a  masterpiece.  Mr.  McFadden 
has  guarded  his  Old  World  prejudice  in  favour  of 
quality  over  quantity. 

He  has  converted  his  drawing-room  into  a 
portrait  gallery,  and  the  presence  of  a  Steinway 
Grand  pianoforte  suggests  the  idea  of  Franz  Liszt, 
who  once  declared  that  his  ambition  was  to  give 
a  concert  in  the  Salon  Carre  of  the  Louvre,  where 
amid  the  questioning  glances  of  the  Da  Vinci,  the 
Giorgione,  the  Rembrandt,  the  Titian,  the  Paolo 
Veronese,  the  Raphael,  and  other  miraculous 
creations  he  would  discourse  as  equally  miracu 
lous  music.  But  in  the  McFadden  gallery  a 
pianist  would  be  restricted  to  playing  the  music 
of  a  single  school;  neither  Beethoven,  Wagner, 
Chopin,  nor  Schumann  would  be  wholly  appro 
priate.  Rather  John  Bull,  Gray,  Byrd,  Gibbons, 
Arne,  Tallis,  Purcell,  above  all  the  noble  and 
ever-fresh  piano  music  of  Handel  —  the  gravely 
graceful  dance  suites;  the  menuetto  sarabande, 
courante  gigue,  passacaille,  chaconne,  allemande, 
and  not  forgetting  the  fire-fugue  for  the  Turner 
—  would  interpret  the  stately  coquetries,  the 
delicate  attitudes,  the  delicious  archness  of  these 
207 


NEW  PROMENADES 

English  belles  and  beaux  of  by-gone  days. 
There  are  two  Hogarths  recently  acquired,  A 
Conversation  at  Wanstead  House,  rich  and 
slightly  sombre  in  tone,  and  a  portrait  group, 
the  Fontaine  Family.  Hoppner  is  represented 
;..  by  the  portrait  of  Miss  Stamper  and  one  of  his 
*  wife,  that  might  have  been  painted  yesterday, 
so  in  the  mode  is  it,  with  its  lyrical  blues  and 
whites.  An  unfamiliar  master  is  George  Henry 
Harlow  (1787-1819),  a  follower  of  Sir  Thomas, 
but  not  a  slavish  one,  as  the  portrait  of  a  mother 
with  her  children  proves.  She  is  a  Mrs.  Weddell, 
and  the  picture  is  extremely  brilliant.  Lady 
Elband  by  Raeburn,  Lady  Belhaven  by  the 
same,  Miss  Finch  and  Miss  Nicholl  by  Romney 
gaze  down  at  you  with  the  veiled  vivacity  or 
sweet  disdain  these  masters  knew  the  secret  of 
imparting  to  their  subjects.  But  the  clou  of  the 
gathering  is  Master  Bunbury,  by  Reynolds,  a 
masterpiece  in  miniature,  for  it  is  not  a  large 
canvas,  the  paint  of  a  lovely  richness,  the 
theme  treated  in  a  human  fashion  without  the 
accustomed  rhetoric  of  the  sometimes  pompous 
Reynolds.  Certainly  this  time  the  son  stood  still 
when  Joshua  commanded. 


V 

HOW  WIDOR  PLAYED  AT  ST.  SULPICE 

Of  course  I  don't  mean  an  entire  night  at 
Maxim's,  because  the  place  isn't  alive  until  mid- 
208 


NEW  PROMENADES 

night.  It  closes  its  doors  at  dawn  or  mid-day  just 
as  circumstances  order.  I  was  sitting  in  the  par 
terre  at  the  Grand  Opera  when  Churchill  crowded 
past  me.  His  name  isn't  Churchill,  but  it  will  do 
here.  He  is  a  young  American  composer  study 
ing  in  Paris.  He  had  the  orchestral  score  of  La 
Valkyrie  under  his  arm,  so  I  rejoiced  when  he 
sat  beside  me.  I  never  knew  how  absurd  Wag 
ner  could  be  when  Gallicised,  so  naturally  enough 
I  was  thirsty  after  the  curtain  fell,  leaving 
Brunhilda  automatically  sleeping  on  the  steam- 
and-fire  rocks  of  Walkuere-Land,  with  Wotan 
humming  sonorously  in  the  middle  distance. 
Back  of  the  Opera,  just  at  the  junction  of  the 
streets  called  Gluck  and  Halevy,  is  the  Cafe 
Monferino.  Therein  may  be  discovered  the 
best  Pilsner  beer  in  all  Paris  —  this  was  in 
1896.  Naturally  I  discovered  the  beer  when 
I  had  been  in  this  delectable  town  a  few  hours, 
so  I  asked  Churchill  if  he  was  athirst.  He  said 
he  was,  and  soon  the  beer  of  Bohemia  was 
before  us  in  big  steins.  For  two  hours  we 
talked  Wagnerian  tempi,  and  it  was  two  hours 
after  midnight  when  we  were  told  that  no  more 
beer  could  be  procured. 

" Let's  go  to  Maxim's,"  said  Churchill. 

"Any  place  in  Paris,"  I  answered,  meaning 
any  place  where  recollections  of  Wagner  could  be 
drowned  in  amber,  as  is  the  fly  of  fable.  So  we 
drove  to  the  Rue  Royale  and  to  Maxim's,  which 
is  not  far  from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  As  we 
forced  our  powerful  personalities  through  a  mob 
209 


NEW  PROMENADES 

of  men,  women,  waiters,  and  crashing,  furious 
music  I  said: 

"Lo,  art  thou  in  Arcady!" 

Churchill,  who  knew  the  place  well,  soon  spied 
a  table  surrounded  by  a  gang  of  young  fellows 
all  yelling:  " Constant,  Constant!''  I  wasn't 
foolish  enough  to  fancy  that  this  combination  of 
imprecation  and  cajolement  meant  an  adjective, 
yet  I  couldn't  at  first  locate  Constant.  I  was 
speedily  introduced  to  six  of  my  countrymen, 
hailing  mostly  from  New  York,  and  after  sol 
emnly  bowing  and  staring  suspiciously  at  their 
friend  Churchill,  they  quite  as  solemnly  shook 
hands  one  with  the  other,  and  yelled  in  unison: 
" Constant!"  And  again  I  rejoiced,  for  I  knew 
in  my  heart  that  I  had  met  the  right  sort. 

Then  appeared  Constant,  known  to  all  good 
Americans,  and  as  he  bowed  his  round,  sleek 
head  for  the  order,  I  tried  to  untangle  the  friti- 
lant  delirium  about  me.  In  front  of  me  waltzed 
furiously  a  red-headed  woman  who  looked  as  if 
Cheret  had  just  thought  her  out  on  a  big  sala 
cious  poster.  She  sprawled,  and  she  slid  in  mid 
air  as  the  Hungarian  band  played  vertiginously. 
The  red-headed  one  had  in  tow  a  small  fellow 
whose  eyes  bulged  with  joy  and  ambition.  He 
possessed  the  largest  lady  in  the  building,  and 
what  more  could  one  expect?  The  Hungarian 
band  was  wonderful.  It  ripped  and  buzzed  with 
rhythmic  rubato  rage,  and  tore  Wagner  passion 
to  tatters.  It  leered,  sang,  swooned,  sighed, 
snarled,  sobbed,  and  leapt.  Its  leader,  a  dark 
210 


NEW  PROMENADES 

gipsy  with  a  wide,  bold  glance,  swayed  as  he 
smote  the  strings  with  his  bow,  and  I  was  quite 
hurt  when  he  went  about  afterward,  plate  in 
hand,  collecting  thankful  francs.  At  tables  sat 
women  and  men  and  women.  The  moral  tone 
was  scarlet,  but  the  toilettes  were  admirable. 
Occasionally  there  strayed  in  a  party  of  tourists, 
generally  British.  They  fled  in  a  moment  if  they 
had  their  women  folk  with  them ;  yet  I  saw  noth 
ing  actually  objectionable.  The  whole  establish 
ment  simply  overflowed  with  good-humoured 
devilry,  and  there  was  that  scarlet  moral  tone;  it 
was  unmistakably  scarlet,  and  as  the  night  wore 
apace  it  became  a  rich  carmilion! 

Churchill  suddenly  cried  aloud  and  our  table 
ceased  singing. 

" Let's  get  a  room  with  a  piano." 

"Constant,  Constant!"  we  howled,  and  soon 
the  active,  indispensable  Constant  conducted  us 
up-stairs  to  a  furnished  apartment,  in  which  stood 
a  mean-looking  upright  piano.  Beer  had  become 
a  watery  nuisance,  so  champagne  was  ordered, 
and  my  voice  trembled  as  I  gave  the  order,  for  I 
knew  Young  America  in  Paris  —  and  we  had  al 
ready  absorbed  enough  to  float  a  three-masted 
schooner.  Constant  left  us  with  a  piteous  re 
quest  not  to  awake  Napoleon  in  his  stony  palace 
across  the  river,  and  then  Master  Churchill,  who 
is  an  organist,  sat  down  to  the  instrument,  and 
without  any  unnecessary  preluding  began  play 
ing  —  what  do  you  suppose? 

Oh,  only  negro  melodies,  and  those  boys 
211 


NEW  PROMENADES 

started  in  to  sing  and  dance  with  frantic  and 
national  emotion.  A  bearded  fellow,  who  wore 
his  hair  and  whiskers  a  la  Capoul,  sang  Irish 
songs  with  an  accent  that  any  song  and  dance 
comedian  of  Tony  Pastor's  would  have  envied. 
He  is  a  pupil  of  the  Beaux  Arts,  but  it  was  his 
Saturday  night  off,  and  he  proposed  to  spend  it 
in  American  fashion.  Two  young  men  students 
at  the  Sorbonne  got  together  and  "said"  some 
cold,  classic  things  from  Racine,  but  broke  into  a 
wild  jig  when  sounded  the  stirring  measures  of 
that  sweet  African  lyric,  "  My  Gal,  My  Gal,  I'm 
Goin'  for  to  See." 

We  fought  double-handed.  We  improvised 
tugs  of  war  with  a  richly  brocaded  table-cloth 
serving  as  a  rope.  We  galloped,  we  pranced,  and 
we  upset  furniture,  and  every  time  a  dark-eyed 
boy  said  in  a  fragile  voice:  "  Oh,  I  want  to  dance," 
we  smothered  him  in  the  richly  brocaded  table 
cloth.  It  was  not  a  time  for  blandishments,  but 
the  hour  for  stern,  masculine  rioting;  and  ac 
cordingly  we  rioted.  I  have  since  marvelled  at 
the  endurance  of  Churchill  who  braved  the  ivory 
teeth  and  cacophonous  bark  of  a  peculiarly  evil 
French  piano.  Once  when  I  asked  him  to  resign 
his  post  and  give  my  aching  ringers  a  chance  he 
refused.  But  he  was  pulled  from  his  place  and  a 
magnum  of  wine  poured  down  his  neck.  Then  I 
sat  down  and  started,  bravely,  with  a  Study  of 
Chopin.  Darkness  supervened,  as  I  was  ruth 
lessly  lassoed  by  that  awful  avenging  table 
cloth  and  dragged  over  the  floor  by  the  strong 
212 


NEW  PROMENADES 

arms  of  seven  Americans.  I  long  nursed  three 
violet-coloured  bruises,  a  triple  testimony  to  the 
Chopin-hating  phalanx  of  the  Beaux  Arts  and 
Sorbonne. 

We  relaxed  not  for  a  second  in  our  athletic  en 
deavours  to  chase  merriment  around  the  clock. 
After  more  big  and  cold  bottles  a  new  psychi 
cal  phase  manifested  itself.  For  rage  and  war's 
alarums  was  substituted  a  warm,  tender  senti- 
mentalism.  We  cried  to  the  very  heavens  that 
we  were  all  jolly  good  fellows  and  that  no  one 
dared  deny.  Constant  came  up  a  half-dozen 
times  to  deny  it;  but  corks,  crackers,  napkins, 
and  vocal  enthusiasm  drove  him  from  the  room. 
Only  when  the  two  young  men  from  the  Sor 
bonne  went  out  upon  the  balcony  and  informed, 
in  stentorian  tones,  the  budding  dawn  and  a  lot 
of  coachmen  that  France  was  a  poor  sort  of  a 
place  and  America  God's  own  country,  then  did 
the  counsels  of  the  trusty  Constant  prevail  and 
order  temporarily  restored.  But  the  glimpse  of 
awkward  daylight  told  on  our  nocturnal  nerves. 
Our  inspiration  flagged  and  a  beer  thirst  set  in, 
and  beer  meant  dissolution;  some  among  us 
were  no  lovers  of  the  fruit  which  grows  in  brew 
eries;  besides  the  pace  began  to  tell.  Our  maes 
tro  Churchill  came  to  the  rescue.  Drinking  a 
celery  glassful  of  wine  he  sat  down  at  the  little 
dog-house  —  I  mean  the  piano  —  and  began 
with  deep  feeling  those  mystically  intense  meas 
ures  of  the  prelude  to  Tristan  and  Isolde.  An 
other  psychical  storm  arose.  The  jesting,  hulla- 

213 


NEW  PROMENADES 

balooing,  rough  horseplay  ceased,  and  a  genuine 
delirium  set  in.  Wagner's  music  is  for  some  peo 
ple  emotional  catnip  at  times.  These  boys 
wriggled  and  chanted,  and  enjoyed  to  the  full 
the  opium-charged  harmonies. 

Wagner  was  our  Waterloo. 

Maxim  will  stand  anything  but  Wagner. 
Churchill  proved  a  master  trance-medium,  and 
as  six  o'clock  sounded  we  tumbled  down-stairs 
and  into  the  daylight.  Eight  American  citizens 
blinked  like  owls  and  a  half-hundred  coachmen 
hovered  about  them.  It  was  a  lovely  Sunday 
morning.  Huge  blocks  of  sunlight,  fanned  by 
soft  breezes,  slanted  up  the  Rue  Royale  from  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  A  solitary  woman  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  a  doorway.  Her  elaborate  hat,  full 
of  fantastic  dream-flowers,  threw  her  face  into 
shade.  Her  costume  was  rich,  her  style  Parisian. 
She  stood  in  shadow  and  waited.  Her  eyes 
were  black  wells  of  regard  and  her  mouth  sullen, 
cruel,  crimson.  Her  jaw  was  animal  and  I  faintly 
recalled  the  curious  countenance  with  its  blend 
ing  of  two  races.  (Ah !  how  sinister  this  sounded 
ten  years  ago.) 

"It  is  the  Morocco  Woman,"  said  one  of  the 
boys. 

It  is  the  "Woman  from  Morocco,"  they  all  re 
peated  shudderingly  and  we  moved  across  the 
street.  I  never  discovered  who  she  was,  this 
mysterious  and  sinister  Woman  of  Morocco. 
(Probably  some  bonne  going  to  church.) 

After  two  of  the  crowd  narrowly  escaped  arrest 
for  trying  to  steal  a  sentry-box  we  tumbled  into 
214 


NEW  PROMENADES 

a  carriage  and  told  the  driver  to  seek  for  beer, 
anywhere,  any  place,  at  any  cost,  beer.  The 
Madeleine  looked  grey  and  classically  disdain 
ful  as  we  turned  into  the  Grand  Boulevard,  and 
in  the  full  current  of  the  sunshine  we  lifted  up 
our  voices  on  the  summer  air  and  told  all  Paris 
how  happy  were  we.  At  Julian's  we  stopped. 
Up  two  heavily  carpeted  flights  of  stairs  we 
travelled  to  find  only  banality.  There  were  a 
few  belated  night-hawks  who  preened  as  we 
entered,  but  we  were  Sons  of  Morning  and  sought 
not  the  Aviaries  of  the  Night.  No  beer,  but  lots 
of  coffee.  Of  course  we  scorned  such  chicory 
advances  and  once  more  reached  the  open  after 
numerous  expostulations.  Our  coachman,  who 
had  been  with  us  since  we  left  the  Cafe  Mon- 
ferino,  began  to  show  signs  of  wear  and  tear. 
He  had  had  a  drink  every  quarter  of  the  hour. 
Yet  did  he  not  weaken,  only  whispered  to  me 
that  every  place  except  the  churches  was  bolted, 
and  this  too,  despite  the  fact  that  the  name  of 
Raines  had  not  been  heard  in  the  land.  We  had 
melted  from  eight  to  six  not  absolutely  reliable 
persons,  so  we  hated  to  give  in.  After  some 
meditation  the  coachman  called  out  encourag 
ing  words  to  his  rusty  old  horse  and  then  I  lost 
my  bearings,  for  we  drove  up  side  streets,  into 
back  alleys  leading  into  other  back  alleys,  down 
tortured  denies  and  into  empty,  open,  clattering 
squares.  At  last  we  reached  a  cafe  bearing  in  its 
fore-front  the  information  that  the  establish 
ment  was  a  rendezvous  for  coachmen. 
Alas!  it  was  too  late  to  pick  our  company;  be- 

215 


NEW  PROMENADES 

sides,  our  withers  were  still  unwrung  and  the 
general  sentiment  of  the  crowd  was  that  to  the 
devil  justly  belonged  the  hindmost.  We  pell- 
melled  into  the  building  and  found,  indeed,  a 
choice  gathering.  Coachmen,  cocottes,  broken- 
down  English  and  Americans,  the  rag-tag  and 
bob-tail,  the  veriest  refuse  of  Parisian  humanity 
found  we,  and  our  entrance  was  received  with  a 
shout.  Degraded  Paris  knew  a  "good  thing" 
when  it  hove  into  view.  We  looked  like  a 
"  good  thing,"  but  we  weren't;  we  were  quite 
exclusive.  After  we  had  treated  every  lost  soul 
in  the  place  twice  over  we  sobered  up,  and  one 
scion  of  America  made  the  original  remark: 

"I  never  knew  that  Paris  held  so  many  thirsty 
people  before." 

I  don't  believe  that  it  ever  did,  so  we  manfully 
squared  financial  matters,  and  after  fighting  off 
the  preluding  of  twenty-nine  awful  persons  we 
escaped  out  of  doors.  There  our  coachman,  who 
had  succumbed,  introduced  us  to  an  old  boot 
black  from  Burgundy,  who  had  wept,  laughed, 
and  fought  with  the  First  Consul.  We  believed 
all  he  said  for  ten  centimes,  and  with  another 
View  Hallo!  drove  down  an  anonymous  alley, 
cheered  to  the  zenith  by  the  most  awful  crew  of 
blackguards  ever  dreamed  of  by  Balzac.  But 
the  sun  set  us  thinking  of  life  and  its  duties. 
One  man  spoke  of  his  mother,  another  of  a  break 
fast  with  an  impossible  cousin.  Then  Churchill 
reminded  me  of  an  engagement  that  I  seemed  to 
have  made  years  ago.  It  was  relative  to  hearing 
216 


NEW  PROMENADES 

the  great  organist,  Widor,  play  at  St.  Sulpice 
and  at  the  eleven  o'clock  service  that  very  day. 
It  was  only  eight  o'clock  and  of  course  it  was  an 
easy  engagement  to  keep.  Churchill  left  us  and 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  say  that  I  had  a  letter  of 
introduction  in  my  pocket  to  a  young  American 
architect  living  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 

"Name,  name!"  was  cried.  I  gave  it,  and  a 
roar  was  the  response. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  before?  He  lives  in 
our  house.  We'll  drive  there  at  once."  We  did. 

Never  to  my  dying  day  shall  I  forget  that  in 
troduction.  We  were  five  strong,  and  there  lived 
on  the  fifth  floor  of  the  apartment  to  which  I  was 
escorted  about  sixteen  young  architects.  I  can 
swear  positively  that  two  young  men  bearing  the 
same  name  as  my  letter  of  introduction  arose  to 
salute  me,  although  the  crowd  only  spoke  of  one 
person.  Perhaps  it  was  the  result  of  atmospheric 
refraction,  some  beery  Parisian  mirage.  The 
devils  in  whose  company  I  found  myself  went 
from  bed  to  bed  shouting: 

"Hello,  old  son,  here  is  a  man  from  New  York 
with  a  letter  from  your  brother,"  and  many  pairs 
of  pajamas  got  out  of  drugged  slumber  bowing 
sleepily  but  politely. 

All  lovely  things  must  end,  and  soon  I  found 
myself  in  front  of  the  Gare  Montparnasse,  talk 
ing  to  a  trainman  about  comparative  wage-earn 
ing  in  Paris  and  Philadelphia,  and  then  I  hailed 
a  carriage  and  drove  across  the  river  to  the  Cafe 
Pilsen,  for  I  was  thirsty  and  the  day  still  young. 
217 


NEW  PROMENADES 

The  cafe  was  closed,  and  I  suddenly  remembered 
that  engagement  to  hear  Widor.  My  watch  told 
me  of  two  hours  in  which  to  dress  and  furbish 
up  my  morals.  Home  I  went  and  took  a  short 
nap,  for  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  hear  the 
great  Widor  at  St.  Sulpice.  Then  I  awoke  with 
a  guilty  tongue  and  a  furred  conscience.  It  was 
quite  dark  and  eleven  o'clock  precisely. 

But  just  twelve  hours  too  late  for  Widor,  and 
I  was  hungry,  and  I  went  forth  into  the  night 
blinking  with  the  lights  of  cabs,  and  as  I  ate  I 
regretted  exceedingly  the  engagement  I  had 
missed  with  Churchill,  and  I  regretted,  exceed 
ingly,  not  having  heard  the  Great  Widor  of  St. 
Sulpice. 


218 


VIII 
THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

IRELAND 

"Ireland,  oh  Ireland!  Centre  of  my  longings, 
Country  of  my  fathers,  home  of  my  heart! 
Over  seas  you  call  me:  Why  an  exile  from  me? 
Wherefore  sea-severed,  long  leagues  apart  ? 

"As  the  shining  salmon,  homeless  in  the  sea  depths, 

Hears  the  river  call  him,  scents  out  the  land, 
Leaps  and  rejoices  in  the  meeting  of  the  waters, 
Breasts  weir  and  torrent,  nests  him  in  the  sand; 

"Lives  there  and  loves,  yet,  with  the  year's  returning, 

Rusting  in  the  river,  pines  for  the  sea, 
Sweeps  back  again  to  the  ripple  of  the  tideway, 
Roamer  of  the  waters,  vagabond  and  free. 

"Wanderer  am  I  like  the  salmon  of  the  rivers; 
London  is  my  ocean,  murmurous  and  deep, 
Tossing  and  vast;  yet  through  the  roar  of  London 
Comes  to  me  thy  summons,  calls  me  in  sleep. 

"  Pearly  are  the  skies  in  the  country  of  my  fathers, 

Purple  are  thy  mountains,  home  of  my  heart. 
Mother  of  my  yearning,  love  of  all  my  longings, 
Keep  me  in  remembrance,  long  leagues  apart." 

— STEPHEN  GWYNN. 

How   dewy  is   the   freshness   and   exquisite 
flavour  of  the  newer  Celtic  poetry,  from  the  more 
ambitious  thunders  of  its  epics  to  its  tenderest 
219 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

lyric  leafage !  It  has  been  a  veritable  renascence. 
Simultaneously,  there  burst  forth  throughout  Ire 
land  a  trilling  of  birdlike  notes  never  before 
heard,  and  the  choir  has  become  more  compact 
and  augmented.  Fiona  Macleod  told  in  luscious, 
melting  prose  her  haunting  tales;  beautiful  Dora 
Sigerson  sang  of  the  roses  that  fade;  Katharine 
Tynan-Hinkson  achieved  at  a  bound  the  spun 
sweetness  of  music  in  her  Larks. 

"I  saw  no  staircase  winding,  winding, 
Up  in  the  dazzle,  sapphire  and  binding, 
Yet  round  by  round,  in  exquisite  air, 
The  song  went  up  the  stair." 

A  pure  ravishment  of  the  ear  this  lyric. 
Lionel  Johnson,  an  Irish  Wordsworth,  intoned 
graver  harmonies;  Nora  Hopper  caught  the  lilt 
of  the  folk  on  the  hillside  with  her  Fairy  Fiddler; 
Douglas  Hyde,  a  giant  in  learning,  fearlessly 
wrote  his  poems  in  Erse,  challenging  with  their 
sturdy  splendour  the  ancient  sagas;  George 
Moore  made  plays  with  W.  B.  Yeats;  Edward 
Martyn  his  Maieve,  Heather  Field;  Mr.  Yeats 
his  Countess  Cathleen;  Fiona  Macleod  The  Hour 
of  Beauty,  and  Alice  Milligan  a  piece  founded  on 
the  stirring  adventures  of  Diarmuid  and  Grania. 

Some  English  critics  who  went  over  to  Dublin 
were  amazed  at  the  many  beauties  of  this  new 
literature,  a  literature  rooted  in  the  vast,  im 
memorial  Volkslied  of  Erin.  Then  Lady  Greg 
ory  published  her  translation  of  Cuchullain  of 
Muirthemne,  and  we  saw  that  as  Wagner  sought 
,220 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

for  rejuvenation  of  the  music-drama  in  the 
Icelandic  sagas,  so  these  young  Irishmen,  en 
thusiastically  bent  upon  recreating  a  national 
literature,  went  to  the  very  living  sources,  the 
poetic  "  meeting  of  the  waters,"  for  their  inspira 
tion.  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  was,  and  is,  the  very 
protagonist  of  the  movement,  though  its  be 
ginnings  may  be  detected  in  the  dark,  moody 
lyrics  of  James  Clarence  Mangan,  in  the  classic 
lines  of  William  Allingham. 

Matthew  Arnold  spoke  of  the  "  Celtic  natural 
magic"  inherent  in  the  great  poetry  of  England. 
Here  we  get  it  in  all  its  sad  and  sunny  perfec 
tions  from  the  woodnote  wild  of  Moira  O'Neill 
to  the  beautiful  phrases  of  Yeats.  The  Celt  and 
the  Sarmatian  are  alike  in  their  despairing  pa 
triotism,  their  preference  for  the  melancholy 
minor  scale  of  emotion,  their  sudden  alternations 
of  sorrow  and  gayety,  defiance  and  despair. 
And  the  Irishman,  like  the  Polish  man,  is  often 
merry  at  heart  even  when  his  song  has  cadences 
dripping  with  mournfulness.  We  hear  it  in  the 
Chopin  mazurkas,  the  really  representative  music 
of  Chopin,  and  we  hear  it  in  those  doleful  tunes 
sung  by  the  Irish  peasantry.  Even  their  ex 
pressive  " keening,"  touching,  as  it  does,  the 
rock-bed  of  earthly  calamity,  can  be  turned  to  a 
rollicking  lay  with  a  mere  inflection.  The  Slav 
and  Celt  are  alike  —  they  fall  from  heaven  to 
hell  in  a  moment,  though  they  always  live  to  tell 
the  tale. 

What  Celt  whose  feet  are  set  in  alien  streets 
221 


-THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

can  hear  unmoved  the  plaintive  Corrymeela  of 
Moira  O'Neill? 

"Over  here  in  England,  I'm  helpin'  wi'  the  hay 
An'  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day; 
Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an'  sorra  take  the  wheat! 
Ochl  Corrymeela  an'  the  blue  sky  over  it." 

And  the  singer  varies  the  refrain  with  "Corry 
meela  an'  the  low  south  wind,"  "  Sweet  Corry 
meela  an'  the  same  soft  rain,"  until  you  feel  the 
heart-throb  of  the  lonely  exile,  and  Corrymeela 
with  its  patch  of  blue  sky,  out  of  which  the  Irish 
rain  pours  —  for  even  the  rain  is  witty  in  Ire 
land —  becomes  the  one  desirable  spot  on  the 
globe.  Here  is  a  veritable  poetic  counterblast  to 
Robert  Browning's  "Oh,  to  be  in  England,  now 
that  April's  there." 

And  "A.  E.,"  who  is  George  W.  Russell  in  the 
flesh  —  what  a  flame-like  spirit,  a  pantheist  who 
adores  Dana  the  mother  of  the  gods  with  the 
consuming  ardour  of  a  Roman  Catholic  before 
the  image  of  Our  Lady.  He  can  sing: 

"In  the  dusk  silver  sweet, 
Down  the  violet-scented  ways 
As  I  moved  with  quiet  feet 
I  was  met  by  mighty  days." 

And  you  hear  as  in  a  murmuring  shell  the 
music  of  Keats,  Verlaine,  and  —  Ireland.  Rus 
sell  is  a  true  poet. 

This  same  Celtic  melancholy,  with  an  heroic 
quality  rare  since  the  legendary  days  and  all 
222 


THE   CELTIC  AWAKENING 

welded  into  music,  lyric,  symphonic,  and  dra 
matic,  is  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  William 
Butler  Yeats.  From  the  Wind  Among  the  Reeds 
to  The  Seven  Woods,  from  the  Wanderings  of 
Oisin  —  incomparable  in  its  lulling  music,  truly 
music  that  like  Oisin's  eyes  is  "dull  with  the 
smoke  of  their  dreams"  —  to  that  touching 
Morality,  The  Hour  Glass  —  aU  of  Mr.  Yeats's 
poems  and  plays  create  the  feeling  that  we  are  in 
the  presence  of  a  singer  whose  voice  and  vision 
are  new,  whose  voice  and  vision  are  commensu 
rate  with  the  themes  he  chants.  Above  all  he 
arouses  the  image  in  us  of  a  window,  like  Keats's 
magic  casement  opening  upon  perilous  seas  and 
strange  vistas  wherein  may  be  discovered  the 
cloudy  figures  of  Deirdre,  Dana,  Cuchullain, 
Diarmuid,  and  Grania;  Bran  moves  lazily  in 
the  mist,  and  in  the  threatening  storm-clouds  we 
see  the  dim  shape  of  Aoife,  the  best  beloved 
woman  of  that  mighty  chieftain  Cuchullain,  who 
slew  the  son  of  her  body  and  his  own  loins.  This 
window  is  the  poet's  own;  it  commands  his  par 
ticular  domain  in  the  land  of  dreams;  and  what 
more  dare  we  ask  of  a  poet  than  the  sharing  of 
his  vision,  the  sound  of  his  voice? 

The  esoteric  quality  of  Yeats  comes  out  more 
strongly  in  the  prose  stories.  A  mystic,  with 
all  a  mystic's  sense  of  reality  —  Huysmans  de 
clares  that  the  mystic  is  the  most  practical  per 
son  alive  —  Yeats  has  dived  deeply  into  the 
writings  of  the  exalted,  from  Joachim  of  Flora  to 
Jacob  Boehme,  from  St.  Teresa  to  William  Blake. 
22$ 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

We  recall  several  of  his  tales,  particularly  The 
Tables  of  the  Law,  Rosa  Alchemica,  The  Bind 
ing  of  the  Hair.  Especially  notable  are  his  con 
tributions  to  Blake  criticism,  so  rare  that  Charles 
Algernon  Swinburne  alone  preceded  him  in  the 
field. 

Nor  shall  we  soon  forget  the  two  poems  in 
Windle  Straws,  or  the  rhythmic  magnificence  of 
The  Shadowy  Horses:  "I  hear  the  shadowy 
horses,  their  long  manes  a-shake,  their  hoofs 
heavy  with  tumults,  their  eyes  glimmering 
white";  or  the  half -hidden  charm  of  O'Sullivan 
Rua  to  the  Secret  Rose.  Pagan?  Yes,  pagan  all 
of  them  in  their  keen  devotion  to  sky  and  water, 
grass  and  brown  Mother  Earth.  Yeats  seems  to 
be  uttering  one  long  chant  of  regret  for  the  van 
ished  gods,  though  like  Heinrich  Heine,  his  gods 
are  but  "in  exile."  They  peep  from  behind  the 
bulrush  and  timorously  hide  in  the  calyx  of  the 
flower;  they  are  everywhere,  in  the  folds  of  the 
garrulous  old  woman,  in  the  love-light  of  the 
girPs  black  eyes.  Ireland  is  fairly  paved  with 
fairies,  and  Yeats  tells  us  of  them  in  his  sweet, 
1  languorous  poetic  speech. 

One  is  struck  not  so  much  with  the  breadth  of 
his  work  as  with  its  depth  and  intensity.  The 
Celt  is  narrow  at  times  —  but  he  touches  the 
far  stars,  though  his  feet  are  plunged  in  the  black 
waters  of  the  bogs.  The  vision  of  Yeats  ap 
proaches  more  nearly  that  of  a  seer.  He  sees 
visions.  He  is  exalted  by  the  sight  of  the  fringe 
on  some  wandering  god's  garment.  And  he  re- 
,224 


THE   CELTIC  AWAKENING 

lates  to  us  in  naive  accents  his  fear  and  his 
joy  at  the  privilege.  After  a  carnival  of  Realism, 
when  the  master-materialists  were  defining  the 
limits  of  space,  when  Matter  and  Force  were 
crowned  on  the  throne  of  reason,  suddenly  comes 
this  awakening  of  the  spiritual,  comes  first  to 
Belgium,  spreads  to  France,  then  to  Ireland. 
After  solid  brick  and  mortar  —  to  quote  Arthur 
Symons  —  the  dreams  multi-coloured  and  tragic 
of  poets!  It  has  been  called  pre-Raphaelism, 
symbolism,  neo-Catholicism,  and  what  not — 
it  is  but  the  human  heart  crying  for  other  and 
more  spiritual  fare  than  the  hard  bread  of  reality. 

The  Irish  Independent  Theatre  has  its  literary 
organs  in  Beltainej  in  Samhain,  and  other  publi 
cations  edited  by  Mr.  Yeats.  Therein  one  learns 
of  its  ideals,  of  its  accomplished  work.  The 
Countess  Cathleen  was  first  acted  in  1899  at  the 
Antient  Concert  Rooms  in  Dublin.  Mr.  Mar- 
tyn's  The  Heather  Field  and  Mr.  Moore's  ad 
mirable  play  The  Bending  of  the  Bough,  and 
Mr.  Yeats's  Diarmuid  and  Crania,  were,  with 
plays  by  Dr.  Hyde  and  several  others,  success 
fully  produced. 

Yeats  says:  "Our  daily  life  has  fallen  among 
prosaic  things  and  ignoble  things,  but  our  dreams 
remember  the  enchanted  valleys."  He  remem 
bers  his  dreams,  tenuous  as  they  sometimes  are, 
and  many  of  them  troubled.  As  he  has  grown, 
the  contours  of  his  work  are  firmer,  the  content 
weightier.  A  comparison  of  The  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire  and  On  Baile's  Strand  will  prove  this. 
225 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

One  is  the  stuff  out  of  which  visions  are  woven; 
the  other,  despite  its  slight  resemblances  to 
Maeterlinck  —  notably  at  the  close,  when  the 
fool  tells  the  blind  man  of  the  drama  —  is  of 
heroic  mould.  The  mad  king  thrusting  and 
slashing  at  the  tumbling  breakers,  after  he  has 
discovered  that  he  has  slain  his  own  son,  is  a 
figure  of  antique  and  tragic  stature.  We  hear 
more  of  the  musician,  the  f  olk-lorist,  the  brooding 
Rosicrucian  —  is  Yeats  not  his  own  Michael 
Robartes?  —  in  the  earlier  verse ;  but  in  this 
image  of  hero  and  king  quite  as  insane  as  Xerxes 
and  Canute,  we  begin  to  feel  the  dramatic  poten 
tiality  of  the  young  Irish  poet.  In  The  Hour 
Glass  there  is  a  note  of  faith  hitherto  absent. 

The  artistic  creeds  of  Mr.  Yeats  are  clearly 
formulated  in  his  collection  of  prose  essays, 
Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil  —  a  very  Nietzsche-like 
title.  In  this  book  Blake  and  Nietzsche  are  hap 
pily  compared.  We  learn  what  he  thinks  of  the 
theatre,  of  the  Celtic  elements  in  literature,  of 
"the  emotion  of  multitude,"  and  there  is  a 
record  of  the  good  work  of  Mr.  Benson  and  his 
company  at  Stratford-on-Avon.  One  idea, 
among  a  thousand  others,  is  worthy  of  quotation. 
In  speaking  of  Matthew  Arnold  and  his  phrase, 
"the  natural  magic  of  the  Celt,'1  Mr.  Yeats 
writes:  "I  do  not  think  he  understood  that  our 
'natural  magic'  is  but  the  ancient  worship  of 
nature  and  that  troubled  ecstasy  before  her,  that 
certainty  of  all  beautiful  places  being  haunted, 
which  is  brought  into  men's  minds."  The  thirst 
226 


THE   CELTIC  AWAKENING 

for  the  unfounded  emotion  and  a  wild  melancholy 
are  troublesome  things  in  this  world,  sighs  the 
poet. 

He  believes  that  France  has  everything  of 
high  literature  except  the  emotion  of  multitude, 
the  quality  we  find  in  the  Greek  plays  with  their 
chorus.  The  Shakespearian  drama  gets  the 
emotion  of  multitude  out  of  the  sub-plot,  which 
copies  the  main  plot.  Ibsen  and  Maeterlinck 
get  it  by  creating  a  new  form,  "for  they  get  mul 
titude  from  the  Wild  Duck  in  the  attic,  or  from 
the  Crown  at  the  bottom  of  the  Fountain,  vague 
symbols  that  set  the  mind  wandering  from  idea 
to  emotion,  emotion  to  emotion. "  Mr.  Yeats 
finds  French  dramatic  poetry  too  rhetorical  — 
"rhetoric  is  the  will  trying  to  do  the  work  of  the 
imagination"  —  and  the  French  play  too  logical, 
too  well  ordered. 

It  is  dramatic  technique,  however,  that  counts 
in  the  construction  of  a  play.  All  the  imagina 
tion  in  the  world,  all  the  poetic  dreams,  are 
naught  if  the  architectural  quantity  be  left  out. 
I  find  Mr.  Yeats's  plays  full  of  the  impalpable 
charm  —  he  almost  makes  the  invisible  visible! 
—  we  catch  in  Chopin,  Chopin  in  one  of  his 
evanescent  secret  moods.  But  place  these  shapes 
of  beauty  out  from  the  dusk  of  dreams,  place 
them  before  "  the  fire  of  the  footlights,"  and  they 
waver  and  evaporate.  Mr.  Yeats  and  his  as 
sociates  must  carve  their  creations  from  harder 
material  than  lovely  words,  lovely  dreams.  To 
be  beautiful  upon  the  stage,  with  a  spiritual 
227 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

beauty,  is  a  terrible,  a  brave  undertaking. 
Maeterlinck  dared  to  be  so;  so  did  Ibsen  — 
though  his  is  the  beauty  of  characterisation. 
Mr.  Yeats  would  mould  from  the  mist  his 
humans.  In  the  acted  drama  this  is  impossi 
ble.  Shakespeare  himself  did  not  accomplish 
the  feat,  because,  being  in  all  matters  a  realist, 
a  practical  man  of  the  theatre,  he  did  not  at 
tempt  it.  His  dreams  are  always  realised. 

Mr.  William  Archer  has  written  of  the  move 
ment:  "The  Irish  drama  possesses  a  true  and 
—  why  should  we  shrink  the  word  —  a  great  poet 
in  Mr.  Yeats;  but  as  yet  it  has  given  us  only 
dramatic  sketches  —  no  thought-out  picture 
with  composition  and  depth  in  it.  ...  The  char 
acters  stand  on  one  plane,  as  it  were  on  the  shal 
low  stage,  always  in  a  more  or  less  irregular  row, 
never  in  an  elaborate  group.  The  incidents 
succeed  one  another  in  careful  and  logical  gra 
dation,  but  have  no  complexity  of  interrelation. 
They  form  a  series,  not  a  system." 

JOHN  M.  SYNGE 

The  early  death  of  a  lyric  poet  is  not  a  loss 
without  compensation,  for  birds  sing  sweetest 
when  young;  but  with  a  dramatic  poet  the  case 
is  altered.  Perhaps  Keats  and  Shelley  would 
have  given  the  world  profounder  music,  music 
with  fundamental  harmonies;  we  are  rich  with 
the  legacies  they  left.  The  deaths  of  Schubert 
and  Chopin  may  not  have  been,  for  the  same 
228 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

reason,  such  irreparable  misfortunes.  The  dis 
appearance  of  John  M.  Synge  from  the  map  of 
life  ten  years  earlier  would  have  spelled  nothing 
to  the  world,  his  death  ten  years  hence  might 
have  found  us  in  possession  of  half  a  dozen 
greater  plays  than  the  slim  sheaf  of  six  he  left 
us  when  he  passed  away  a  few  weeks  ago  at 
Dublin.  A  dramatist  must  know  life  as  well  as 
art:  those  " little  mirrors  of  sincerity"  which  are 
the  heart  of  the  lyricist  must  in  a  play  mirror  the 
life  exterior  before  they  can  stir  us  to  the  core. 
Life,  life  felt  and  seen  and  sung,  these  are  the 
true  architectonics  of  great  drama;  all  the  rest 
is  stagecraft.  Now  John  Synge  was  a  poet  who 
spoke  in  clear,  rich-fibred  prose.  The  eternal 
wanderlust  that  was  in  men  like  Bamfylde- 
Moore  Carew  and  George  Borrow  also  stung 
the  blood  of  Synge.  He  had  the  gipsy  scholar 
temperament.  He  went  about  France  and  Ger 
many,  and  in  his  beloved  Aran  Islands  his  fiddle 
was  the  friend  of  the  half-wild  peasantry.  He 
was  not  thirty-eight  when  he  died,  yet  he  left 
behind  him  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  voice  of  a 
large,  sane  soul  —  both  the  soul  of  a  dreamer  and 
the  man  of  action  who  is  the  dramatist.  His 
taking  off  before  his  prime  means  much  to  Irish 
literature,  though  happily  his  few  days  suffice 
for  the  consecration  of  his  genius. 

The  chemistry  which  transmuted  experience 

into  art  will  doubtless  be  analysed  by  his  future 

biographers.     His  life  was  simple  —  simplicity 

was  the  key-note  of  the  man.    He  loved  litera- 

229 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

ture,  but  he  loved  life  better.  He  was  not  of  the 
decadent  temperament;  he  was  too  robust  of 
body  and  spirit  to  be  melancholy,  nor  did  he 
ever,  on  the  absinthe  slopes  of  Montmartre, 
grasp  for  the  laurels  of  the  "  moderns."  His 
friend  Yeats  has  written:  "Synge  was  essen 
tially  an  orderly  man  with  unlimited  indul 
gence  for  the  disorderly,"  He  did  contemplate 
a  career  devoted  to  criticism.  His  favour 
ite  French  writer  was  Racine  —  we  are  far  re 
moved  here  from  the  decadence  —  but  luckily 
Yeats  persuaded  his  young  countryman  to  re 
turn  to  Ireland,  there  to  write  of  the  people  and 
the  land  from  which  he  sprang.  Seldom  has 
advice  borne  better  results.  Synge  went  to  the 
Aran  Islands,  off  the  coast  of  Galway,  and  in  a 
book  of  rare  interest  and  vast  naivete  gave  us  a 
series  of  pictures  that  may  be  considered  the 
primal  sketches  for  his  plays.  Though  The  Aran 
Islands  was  published  in  1907  it  is  a  record  dating 
back  several  years.  Over  the  Western  country 
he  went  afoot,  living  in  the  cabins,  talking  by 
the  wayside  with  the  old  men  and  the  girls,  and 
drawing  his  bow  for  the  couples  dancing.  He 
loved  the  people,  and  his  eye  was  not  the  meas 
uring  eye  of  the  surgeons  we  expect  from  novel 
ists  and  dramatists. 

Synge  was  neither  a  symbolist  nor  a  man  with 
a  message.  His  symbols  are  the  sea,  the  sky,  and 
the  humans  who  lead  the  hard,  bitter  lives  of  a 
half-ruined  land,  bankrupt  of  nearly  all  else  ex 
cept  its  dreams.  Your  reformer  who  puts  plays 
.230 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

on  the  stage  to  prove  something  is  only  half  an 
artist,  no  matter  what  his  wit  or  the  justice  of 
his  cause. 

But  in  the  Synge  plays  "  sweet  Corrymeela  an' 
the  same  soft  rain"  does  not  interest  him  as  do 
the  words  of  the  headstrong  girl  by  the  hedge 
who  wants  to  marry  the  tinker;  or  the  blind  pair 
of  tramps  whose  vision  returns  and  with  their 
sight  a  hell  of  disappointment;  or  the  passionate 
woman  of  the  glen,  whistling  for  her  lover,  or  the 
riders  to  the  sea,  scooper  of  graves.  Human 
emotions,  the  more  elemental  the  better,  are 
for  Synge  the  subject-matter  of  his  cameo 
carved  work.  He  is  mindful  of  technique;  he 
learned  the  art  in  France;  he  can  fashion  a 
climax  with  the  best  of  them.  There  are  no 
loose  ends.  His  story  moves  from  the  first  to 
the  last  speech.  Eminently  for  the  footlights, 
these  tiny  dramas  may  be  read  without  losing 
their  essential  thrill.  Beauty  and  terror  within 
the  frame  of  homely  speech  and  homely  actions 
are  never  lost  sight  of;  and  what  different  men 
and  women  are  Synge's  when  compared  to  the 
traditional  stage  Irishmen  of  Carleton,  Lover, 
Lever,  Boucicault,  and  a  hundred  others.  Yet 
the  roaring,  drinking,  love-making  broth  of  a 
boy  hasn't  changed.  He  may  be  found  in  Synge, 
but  he  is  presented  without  the  romantic  senti 
mental  twist. 

Perhaps  the  picture  may  be  unflattering,  but 
it  is  a  truer  picture  than  the  older.  The  Playboy 
of  the  Western  World  was  hissed  at  Dublin,  and 

231 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

New  York,  and  harshly  arraigned  by  press  and 
public.  The  Irish  never  could  stand  criticism. 
The  very  same  element  here  which  protests 
against  the  caricatured  Celt  in  comedy  and  vaude 
ville,  and  with  just  cause,  would  probably  attack 
Synge's  plays  as  unpatriotically  slanderous.  Cer 
tainly,  this  dramatist  does  not  attenuate  the 
superstition,  savagery,  ignorance,  drunkenness, 
and  debasement  of  the  peasantry  in  certain  sec 
tions  of  Ireland.  His  colours,  however,  are  not 
laid  on  coarsely,  as  if  with  a  Zola  brush.  There 
is  an  eternal  something  in  the  Celt  that  keeps  him 
from  reaching  the  brute.  Possibly  the  New 
Irishman  does  not  differ  at  base  from  his  fore 
bears,  but  he  is  a  shade  sadder;  he  is  not  as  rol 
licking  as  the  gossoons  of  Carleton.  His  virtues 
are  celebrated  by  Synge;  his  pessimism,  which 
is  ever  tipped  on  its  edges  by  an  ineluctable 
hope  for  better  times;  his  confirmed  belief  in 
the  marvellous,  his  idolatry  of  personal  prowess, 
his  bravery,  generosity,  hot  heart,  and  witty 
speech  —  all  these  qualities  are  not  by  any 
means  missing  in  the  plays.  Indeed,  they  loom 
large.  All  Ireland  is  not  the  province  of  Synge. 
He  has  only  fenced  off  certain  tracts  of  the  west 
ern  coast  —  the  east  as  well  in  The  Well  of  the 
Saints  —  the  coast  of  Mayo  and  a  glen  in  County 
Wicklow.  If  he  had  lived  he  might  have  de 
scribed  with  the  same  vitality  and  vivacity  the 
man  who  walks  in  Phoenix  Park,  or  the  people 
of  Donegal,  "the  far  down."  Judging  from  his 
own  unpleasant  experiences  in  Dublin  he  could 
232 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

have  echoed  Charles  Lever,  who  once  sang  of 
his  country  folk  as: 

"  Fightin'  like  divils  for  conciliation, 
An'  hatin'  each  other  for  the  love  of  God." 

"  These  people  make  no  distinction  between 
the  natural  and  the  supernatural,"  wrote  Synge 
in  his  Aran  Islands.  Nor  do  the  characters  of  his 
plays.  Technically  buttressed  as  they  are  at 
every  point,  the  skeleton  cleanly  articulated, 
nevertheless  the  major  impression  they  convey 
is  atmospheric.  Real  people  pass  before  your 
eyes;  there  is  not  the  remote  and  slowly  moving 
antique  tapestry,  as  in  the  Maeterlinck  or  Yeats 
fantasies.  Stout-built  lads  whack  their  father, 
or  the  tinker  and  his  trull  knock  over  the  priest: 
there  is  loud  talk  and  drink  and  bold  actions ;  but 
the  magic  of  the  Celt  envelops  all.  This  is  more 
notable  in  Riders  to  the  Sea,  which  has  a 
Maeterlinckian  touch  —  the  modulation  of  the 
suspicion  of  death  into  its  culminating  terrors; 
but  it  is  Irish.  It  is  Synge.  What  could  be  more 
Irish  than  the  last  speech  of  Maurya,  the  mother 
bereaved  by  the  greedy  sea  of  her  husband  and 
sons:  "No  man  at  all  can  be  living  forever; 
and  we  must  be  satisfied."  The  very  pith  of 
Celtic  fatalism!  The  grim  humour  of  the  sup 
posed  dead  man  in  The  Shadow  of  the  Glen  is 
Irish  too;  and  also  the  tramp  who  fills  the  ears 
of  the  banished  wife  with  his  weaving  eloquence. 
She  goes  with  him  into  the  wet  and  wind  of  the 
night,  knowing  that  a  " grand  morning"  will 

233 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

surely  follow.  This  humour  is  pervasive  and 
does  not  reveal  itself  in  the  lightning  flash  of 
epigram.  It  is  the  same  with  the  tender  poetry 
that  informs  Synge's  rhythmic  prose.  His  dia 
logue  goes  to  a  tune  of  its  own,  a  tune  in  the  web 
of  which  music  and  meaning  are  closely  spun  in 
the  same  skein,  while  beneath  hums  the  sad 
diapason  of  humanity. 

Consider  the  speeches  in  The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World,  the  most  important  of  the 
dramas.  Each  line  is  illuminating.  Such  con 
cision  is  refreshing.  Character  emerges  from 
both  phrase  and  situation.  This  play,  while 
it  is  not  so  shudder-breeding  as  Riders  to  the 
Sea,  is  more  universal  in  interest.  Christy 
Mahon,  the  young  hero  who  is  not  heroic,  is  an 
Irish  Peer  Gynt.  He  lies  that  he  may  create  the 
illusion  of  heroism;  a  liar  of  the  breed  artistic. 
He  boasts  of  murdering  his  father  (didn't  the 
cultivated  Charles  Baudelaire  actually  boast  the 
same  noble  deed?)  for  he  knows  the  simple  folk 
will  regard  him  with  mingled  horror  and  admira 
tion.  The  two  rivals  for  his  love,  Pegeen  Mike 
and  the  Widow  Quin,  are  etched  by  the  needle 
of  a  master;  the  fierce,  passionate  girl  is  real,  but 
the  cunning  widow  is  delightful  comedy.  She 
crosses  the  page  or  the  footlights  and  you  touch 
her  flattering  hand,  hear  her  blarneying  voice. 
The  minor  characters  are  excellent,  and  they  are 
subtly  disposed  on  the  various  planes  of  interest 
and  action.  The  piece  moves  briskly  or  lan 
guidly,  the  varying  lines  fit  each  human  with 

234 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

consummate  appropriateness.  The  story  itself 
is  as  old  as  Troy,  as  is  also  the  theme  of  The  Well 
of  the  Saints.  Synge  is  never  esoteric.  His 
argument  never  leaves  the  earth,  yet  few  dram 
atists  evoke  such  a  sense  of  the  Beyond.  He 
is  a  seer  as  well  as  a  manipulator  of  comedy. 
The  vigorous  sketch  of  his  head  by  John  B. 
Yeats  (prefacing  The  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World)  shows  us  a  fine  strong  profile,  a  big  brow, 
and  the  gaze  of  the  dreamer,  but  a  dreamer  for 
whom  the  visible  world  existed.  "The  Synges 
are  strong/'  answered  a  relative  to  the  inquiry: 
"Was  J.  M.  Synge's  death  hastened  by  the  hos 
tile  reception  accorded  his  play  in  Dublin?"  It 
was  not.  His  view  of  life  was  too  philosophical 
for  criticism  to  hurt;  he  had  the  objective  tem 
perament  of  the  dramatist,  the  painter  of 
manners,  the  psychologist.  Nearing  the  matu 
rity  of  his  splendid  powers,  on  the  threshold  of  a 
love  marriage,  he  disappeared  like  the  mist  on 
one  of  his  fairy-haunted  hills.  But  the  real  John 
Synge  will  endure  in  his  plays. 

A  POET  OF  VISIONS 

William  Butler  Yeats  is  a  young  man  —  he 
was  born  at  Dublin,  June,  1865  —  but  he  is 
already  famous,  and  for  those  who  only  know  of 
his  name  through  Dame  Rumour's  trumpet  his 
fame  will  be  further  assured  by  the  sight  of  his 
collected  works  in  prose  and  verse,  eight  vol 
umes  long,  published  at  the  Shakespeare  Head 

235 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

Press,  Stratford-on-Avon.  Mr.  Bullin  has  spared 
no  pains  to  make  these  substantial  volumes 
agreeable  to  eye  and  touch;  quarter  vellum  backs 
and  gray  linen  sides,  bold,  clear  type,  and  paper 
light  in  weight.  The  price,  too,  is  not  pro 
hibitive  for  the  collector.  A  bibliography  of  the 
various  editions,  English,  American  —  Mr.  John 
Quinn  has  privately  printed  many  plays  of 
Yeats  in  New  York  —  is  all  that  could  be  de 
sired.  The  poet  is  pictured  in  frontispiece  by 
such  artists  as  John  S.  Sargent,  Mancini,  Charles 
Shannon,  and  by  his  father,  John  Butler  Yeats; 
the  reproductions  are  excellent.  Volume  I  con 
tains  the  Sargent  head,  from  a  charcoal  drawing, 
the  original  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Quinn.  It 
is  Yeats  seen  by  Sargent  and  definitely  set  forth 
in  the  terms  of  the  Sargent  daylight  prose  —  a 
young  man  wearing  a  Byronic  collar,  the  sil 
houette  as  firm  as  iron,  the  eyes  in  the  shadow  of 
the  heavy  overhanging  hair.  A  splendid  bit  of 
modelling,  yet  not  the  essential  Yeats,  who  is 
nocturnal,  or  trembling  on  the  edges  of  the 
twilight  or  dawn.  Volume  III  shows  us  Charles 
Shannon's  conception:  a  three-quarter  view,  the 
cerebral  region  markedly  accentuated,  the  ex 
pression  contemplative.  A  vital  rendering. 
The  Mancini  drawing  in  volume  V  looks  like  an 
improvisation  by  the  brilliant  Italian  colourist  on 
themes  from  Yeatsian  moods.  The  poet  faces 
you,  he  wears  glasses,  his  eyes  are  almost  ef 
faced,  his  mouth  is  quizzical;  he  is  perhaps  look 
ing  at  Celtic  hats  conversing  with  the  dhouls  of 
236 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

midnight  on  some  cosmical  back-fence.  We  like 
the  drawing  of  the  elder  Yeats  prefacing  volume 
VII;  it  is  the  poet  Yeats  of  Rosa  Alchemica, 
and  the  Tables  of  the  Law;  Yeats  the  student 
of  the  Rosy  Cross,  the  mystic  Yeats  of  1896, 
who,  immersed  in  the  occultism  of  the  Orient, 
was  peering  through  the  mists  of  Erin  in  search 
of  a  symbol  to  fully  express  his  love  for  her.  He 
is  a  trifle  uncanny,  a  dweller  on  the  threshold, 
and  for  us  nearer  the  real  Yeats  than  the  other 
presentations.  In  this  instance  blood  tells  the 
tale,  notwithstanding  the  glory  that  is  Sargent's, 
that  is  Shannon's,  that  is  Mancini's.  One  fact, 
however,  stares  you  in  the  face:  all  four  artists 
have  seen  their  subject  as  he  is,  an  authentic 
poet.  His  gamut  is  one  of  fantasy;  he  is  less  at 
ease  among  the  sonorous  sagas  than  amid  the 
fantasy  of  misty  mountains,  bracken  lights  and 
the  sound  of  falling  waters. 

The  bibliography  tells  us  that  Mosada,  a 
dramatic  poem,  was  the  first  published  work. 
It  was  reprinted  in  1886  from  the  Dublin  Uni 
versity  Review,  and  in  company  with  other  poems, 
plays,  and  prose  does  not  appear  in  the  definitive 
edition;  among  other  omissions  we  note  The 
Pot  of  Broth.  Yeats  has  the  courage  of  a  sur 
geon.  Does  he  sing  at  the  beginning  of  the 
bibliography: 

"  Accursed  who  brings  to  light  of  day 
The  writings  I  have  cast  away! 
But  blessed  he  that  stirs  them  not 
And  lets  the  kind  worms  take  the  lot! " 

237 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

What  a  motto  for  all  writers!  The  various 
volumes  are  about  equally  divided  between 
verse  and  prose,  and  we  do  not  pretend  to  assert 
that  the  interest  is  unflaggingly  maintained. 
For  the  last  ten  years  the  poet  has  been  doubled 
by  a  propagandist,  and  in  the  too  few  intervals 
left  the  latter  the  dramatist  began  to  bud.  The 
neo-Irish  literary  movement,  literally  a  cry  of 
back  to  the  people,  back  to  the  soil,  back  to  the 
Gaelic  myths,  is  now  history.  Suddenly  the 
sleepy  old  city  on  the  River  Liffey  became  the 
centre  of  a  poetic  renascence,  a  renascence  of 
wonder,  as  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  would  say. 
Further,  the  spirit  of  Paris,  of  the  romanticism 
of  1830,  invaded  Dublin.  Several  Yeats  plays 
were  placed  under  the  ban  of  public  displeasure, 
Countess  Cathleen  for  one;  as  for  J.  M.  Synge, 
it  was  a  case  for  the  police  when  his  Playboy  of 
the  Western  World  was  produced.  (Mr.  Yeats 
assures  us  that  there  were  500  at  the  second 
performance.)  Evidently  Dublin  awoke  to  the 
knowledge  that  a  new  art  was  being  born  and 
that  the  travail  was  not  without  its  pangs. 

Yeats  has  been  at  both  the  centre  and  cir 
cumference  of  this  artistic  wheel,  the  hub  of 
which  is  unquestionably  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde. 
With  such  colleagues  as  Lady  Gregory,  the  late 
Synge,  Russell  (";£")  Martyn,  George  Moore, 
Father  Peter  O'Leary,  and  a  host  of  other 
writers,  playwrights,  poets,  critics,  the  experi 
ments  in  the  smaller  auditoriums  and  at  the 
Abbey  Theatre  attracted  the  attention  of  not 

238 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

only  England  but  of  the  world.  How  much  the 
lyric  poet  who  is  William  Butler  Yeats  has  lost 
or  gained  by  his  devotion  to  what  seemed  a  hope 
less  dream  we  dare  not  say,  but  after  rereading 
his  collected  works  one  may  not  doubt  as  to 
their  contemporary  importance  and  future  per 
manency.  The  rich  undertones  of  The  Wind 
Among  the  Reeds,  full  at  moments  as  are  those 
songs  of  the  echoes  of  the  dead  poets,  are  the 
key-notes  after  all  of  the  later  Yeats.  He  is 
always  following  a  vision  or  hearing  a  voice,  a 
" sweet  everlasting  voice,"  hearing  "the  Shad 
owy  Horses,  their  long  manes  a-shake."  These 
songs  he  perhaps  thinks  slight  and  dim  to-day, 
but  they  are  not.  They  are  redolent  of  wind 
and  sky  and  the  souls  of  the  forgotten  things  far 
away  and  the  desire  for  the  dead  women  with 
locks  of  gold  and  the  terrible  war  that  is  to  be 
waged  in  the  valley  of  the  Black  Pig,  where  all 
will  bow  down  to  the  "  Master  of  the  still  stars 
and  the  flaming  door."  There  is  less  meta 
physics,  too,  in  the  early  verse.  Often  we  feel 
the  weight  of  the  cerebral  whiplash  in  his  later 
verse;  also  the  tones  of  sophistication.  In  the 
Seven  Woods  holds  such  jewels  as  The  Folly  of 
Being  Comforted,  Never  Give  All  the  Heart, 
and  that  lovely  The  Hollow  Wood,  with  its 
Elizabethan  lilt,  "0  hurry  to  the  water  amid  the 
trees,  for  there  the  tall  tree  and  his  Leman  sigh." 
And  "0  do  not  love  too  long"  —  has  the  poet 
ever  since  recaptured  such  tender,  plaintive 
notes?  Youth  is  a  time  for  living  and  singing 

239 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

and  loving,  and  a  poet  is  not  young  forever. 
The  pipe  of  Yeats  may  not  compass  the  octave; 
but  his  pipe  is  pure,  its  veiled  tones  hide  the 
magic  of  the  Celt. 

We  need  not  dwell  now  on  The  Wanderings 
of  Oisin,  with  the  stern  responses  of  St.  Patric; 
or  on  the  Fenians,  or  those  whose  eyes  were  "dull 
with  the  smoke  of  their  dreams,"  a  little  epic  of 
disenchantment  of  the  vanished  pagan  gods. 
In  volume  II  will  be  found  the  four  favourite 
plays:  The  King's  Threshold,  On  Baile's  Strand, 
Deirdre,  and  The  Shadowy  Waters.  They  are 
known  to  American  readers.  While  they  do  not 
always  prove  that  the  poet  has  the  fire  of  the 
footlights  in  his  veins,  they  are  nevertheless  of 
great  imaginative  beauty  and  of  a  finely  woven 
poetic  texture,  and  the  dramatisation  not  alone 
of  a  moving  tale  but  of  moods  that  seem  just 
beyond  the  rim  of  the  soul.  We  can  imagine 
Claude  Debussy  or  Loeffler  suffusing  these  plays 
with  mysterious  music.  On  Baile's  Strand,  and 
its  mad  father  duelling  with  the  waters,  evokes 
an  elemental  thrill;  the  dire  reality  when  the 
Blind  Man  cries  to  the  Fool:  " Somebody  is 
trembling,  Fool!  The  bench  is  shaking";  but 
it  is  Cuchulain  shivering  as  he  learns  that  he 
has  slain  his  son.  Such  touches  as  these  con 
vince  you  that  Yeats  has  a  dramatic  pulse.  It 
is  Deirdre  that  drives  home  this  contention. 
To  us  it  seems  the  best  grounded,  best  realised  of 
his  work  for  the  theatre.  It  has  the  element  of 
awe  and  the  elements  of  surprise,  fear,  great 
240 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

passion,  and  noble  humanity.  And  after  Tris 
tan  and  Isolde,  that  perfect  dramatic  poem,  is 
not  the  tale  of  Deirdre  the  most  sweet  and  piti 
ful?  Conchubar  is  a  sinister  King  Mark,  Naisi 
a  second  Tristan,  and  Deirdre  an  undaunted 
Isolde.  What  if  Wagner  had  known  this  touch 
ing  legend!  There  is  emotional  stuff  in  it  for 
a  music  drama.  Yeats  has  handled  his  material 
simply  and  directly  —  the  tale  goes  on  swift, 
relentless  feet  to  its  sorrowful  end.  There  is 
enough  poetry  in  it  to  furnish  forth  the  reputa 
tion  of  a  dozen  minor  poets.  The  Shadowy 
Waters  is  a  theme  for  the  Irishman ;  he  swims  in 
an  atmosphere  where  others  would  hardly  respire. 
He  himself  is  Forgael,  with  the  luminous  and 
magical  harp.  He  has  tasted  that  crust  of  bread 
of  which  Paracelsus  spoke,  and  therefore  has 
tasted  all  the  stars  and  all  the  heavens. 

The  Land  of  the  Heart's  Desire,  with  its 
supernatural  overtones,  The  Hour  Glass,  The 
Countess  Cathleen,  Cathleen  Ni  Houlihan,  and 
The  Unicorn  from  the  Stars  —  "where  there  is 
nothing  there  is  God"  —  are  familiar.  Whether 
Yeats  is  as  near  the  soil  as  Synge  or  as  happy  in 
catching  the  gestures  and  accents  of  the  peasant 
we  are  free  to  doubt.  Yet  in  The  Unicorn  there 
is  realism  enough  to  satisfy  those  who  long 
merely  for  veracious  surfaces.  This  poet  knows 
the  "boreens,"  the  bogs  and  the  "caubeens," 
the  " gloom"  and  the  "doom"  of  his  native  land. 
He  is  compact  with  sympathy.  If  he  is  a 
symbolist  in  The  Golden  Helmet  he  can  repro- 
241 


THE   CELTIC  AWAKENING 

duce  with  fidelity  the  voice  of  Teig  the  fool  in 
The  Hour  Glass;  or  he  is  both  poet  and  painter 
in  Cathleen  Ni  Houlihan  and  its  finely  wrought 
climax.  He  has  not,  let  us  add,  attempted  to 
domesticate  the  banshee  in  the  back  yard  of 
Irish  poetry.  Through  his  " magic  casement" 
we  may  always  see  the  haze  of  illusion. 

Yeats  reminds  us  a  little  of  that  old  Irish 
woman  he  quotes  in  one  of  the  western  villages 
who  believed  hell  an  invention  of  the  priests  to 
keep  people  good,  and  that  ghosts  would  not  be 
permitted  to  go  "traipsin'  about  the  earth"; 
but  she  believed  that  "  there  are  faeries  and  little 
leprechauns  and  water  horses  and  fallen  angels." 
He  has  so  saturated  himself  with  the  folklore  of 
Ireland,  with  the  gossip  of  its  gods  and  fighting 
men  and  its  pagan  mythology,  that  we  are  caught 
within  the  loop  of  his  sorceries  in  a  dream  as  he 
conjures  up  the  mighty  deeds  and  ancient  super 
stitions  in  The  Celtic  Twilight  and  the  stories  of 
Red  Hanrahan.  This  is  an  attractive  volume 
(V)  and  should  be  first  read  by  those  readers  to 
whom  all  this  wealth  of  legend  may  prove  new. 
The  plays  will  then  be  better  understood. 

Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil  (volume  VI),  essays  on 
sundry  subjects,  like  volume  VIII,  Discoveries, 
reveal  the  poet  as  a  prose  writer  of  assured 
ease  and  a  master  of  modern  ideas.  He  knows 
Nietzsche,  Flaubert,  Ibsen,  and  he  knows  Will 
iam  Blake.  We  need  not  agree  with  his  va 
rious  dicta  on  dramatic  art,  on  the  technique 
of  verse,  or  on  that  chimera  the  speaking  of 
242 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

verse  to  the  accompaniment  of  monotone  music; 
nor  need  we  countenance  his  statement  that 
music  is  the  most  impersonal  of  the  arts;  the 
reverse  is  the  truth.  Mr.  Yeats,  like  so  many 
poets,  seems  to  be  tone-deaf.  Music  tells  him  no 
secrets;  words  are  his  music;  at  the  best,  music 
and  words  combined  is  an  unholy  marriage. 
But  why  should  he  envy  the  musician?  His 
own  verse  goes  to  a  tune  of  its  own,  a  loosely 
built,  melancholy,  delicious  tune,  as  Celtic  as  is 
the  evanescent  music  of  Chopin  Polish.  We  do 
not  hear  the  swish  of  the  battle-axe  in  his  verse; 
the  heroic  is  seen  as  in  a  bewitched  mirror,  the 
cries  of  the  dying  are  muffled  by  the  harmonies 
of  a  soul  that  sits  and  wonders  and  faces  the 
past,  never  the  present. 

In  Volume  VII  are  those  two  prose  master 
pieces  —  for  such  they  are  —  of  the  esoteric : 
Rosa  Alchemica  and  The  Tables  of  the  Law. 
For  the  mystically  inclined,  Michael  Robartes 
and  Owen  Aherne  will  be  very  real;  the  atmos 
pheric  quality  betrays  the  artist.  As  for  the 
various  essays  in  propaganda,  which  appeared  in 
Beltaine,  Samhain,  the  Arrow,  and  elsewhere, 
they  arouse  the  impression  of  an  alert,  sensitive, 
critical  mind,  fighting  for  the  acceptance  of  ideas 
of  national  importance.  Mr.  Yeats  the  critic 
is  different  from  Yeats  the  poet.  He  is  a  virile 
opponent,  and  as  sincere  as  he  is  versatile  in 
argument.  He  must  have  been  a  prime  figure 
in  the  general  war  waged  on  the  indifference 
and  animosity  of  his  countrymen.  Will  the  new 
243 


THE  CELTIC  AWAKENING 

Irish  theatre  endure?  Anything  may  be  success 
ful  in  Ireland;  success  is  a  shy  bird  that  rarely 
perches  on  her  worn  and  tear-stained  standards, 
but  in  the  conflict  William  Butler  Yeats  found 
his  soul,  and  that  is  the  main  business  of  a  man's 
life,  and  all  the  life  of  a  poet. 


244 


IX 

THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 


WHEN  Theophile  Gautier,  young,  strong,  and 
bubbling  over  with  genius,  asked  the  great  Bal 
zac  whether  artists  should  marry,  he  was  sternly 
advised  to  avoid  women  altogether. 

"But,  how  about  correspondence?"  hazarded 
the  timid  youth. 

Balzac  reflected:  "Perhaps;  that  forms  one's 
style." 

Naturally,  Gautier  did  not  take  the  advice 
seriously.  He  knew,  as  the  world  knew  later, 
that  the  preacher  did  not  practise.  The  private 
life  of  the  master  of  French  fiction  is,  thanks  to 
Lovenjoul,  no  longer  the  sentimental  legend  his 
sentimental  biographers  made  of  it.  A  Grand 
Celibate,  notwithstanding  his  brief,  unlucky  mar 
riage,  Balzac  had  the  bachelor- temperament, 
and  he  had,  too,  many  feminine-irons  in  the  fire. 
He  was  as  reckless  as  Liszt,  and  much  more  im 
prudent  than  his  breeched,  feminine  contem 
porary,  George  Sand. 

But  was  his  advice  to  Gautier  impearled  wis 
dom?  Should  the  artist  marry?  And  if  he  does 
marry,  what  kind  of  woman  should  he  take  to 

245 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

wife?  Why  does  the  artist  at  least  in  the  pop 
ular  belief,  make  such  a  mess  of  matrimony? 
Are  unions  contracted  between  artist-men  and 
women  unhappy  ones?  Isn't  there,  after  all, 
an  immense  exaggeration  in  the  assumption  that 
they  are?  Let  us  reconnoitre  this  battle-field, 
over  which  are  strewn  so  many  gaunt,  bleach 
ing  bones,  so  many  wrecked  lives  —  according  to 
fact  and  fiction  —  and  ask:  What  in  the  name 
of  all  that  is  holy  and  hellish  is  the  "  artistic  tem 
perament"  ? 

One  question  at  a  time.  Is  the  artist  always 
unhappy  in  his  marriage? 

You  may  survey  the  field  from  Socrates  to 
Robert  and  Clara  Schumann  and  find  that  the 
scales  balance  about  evenly.  Socrates  had  his 
Xantippe  —  the  shrew  is  an  historical  event  long 
before  the  spouse  of  Athens's  wise  man  (a  shrew 
is  usually  a  woman  who  objects  to  being  ill- 
treated,  just  as  a  cynic  is  a  man  who  sees  the 
truth  and  says  it  more  clearly  than  his  fellow- 
men).  Doubtless,  Socrates,  friend  of  Plato, 
often  envied  the  celibacy  of  his  pupil.  Philos 
ophers  should  never  marry.  Thus  Schopen 
hauer:  "When  wives  come  in  at  the  door,  wis 
dom  escapes  by  the  window."  It  sounds  pretty, 
this  proverb,  but  again  history  disproves  it.  The 
Grand  Celibates  do  indeed  form  a  mighty 
phalanx.  In  later  days  the  list  embraces  the 
names  of  Balzac  —  his  marriage  was  the  one 
mistake  of  a  bachelor-existence;  Lamb,  Pascal, 
De  Musset,  Keats,  Stendhal,  Merimee,  Flau- 
246 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

bert,  Beethoven,  Swinburne,  Pater,  Turgenief, 
Nietzsche,  not  to  drag  in  Michaelangelo,  Ra 
phael,  Franz  Liszt,  or  Walt  Whitman.  Bache 
lorhood  makes  strange  bedfellows! 

We  are  by  no  means  certain  that  these  famous 
men  were  happy  because  of  their  unmarried 
state;  some  we  know  were  excessively  unhappy; 
most  of  them  were  embroiled  with  women,  and 
several  went  mad.  Any  sleek  statistician  will 
assure  you  that  married  life  is  conducive  to 
longevity.  And  often  the  mother  of  children, 
forgetting  for  the  moment  her  strenuous  days, 
speaks  slightingly  of  the  monastic  vocation.  Nor 
is  the  time  passed  from  the  memory  of  the  liv 
ing,  when  a  bachelor  who  refused  to  give  up  his 
liberty  was  socially  looked  at  askance.  He  bore 
a  doubtful  reputation:  A  merry  blade  given  to 
midnight  wassail!  Since  emancipated  spinster- 
hood  has  discovered  that  it  is  not  necessary  to 
marry  to  be  happy,  or  to  escape  the  stigma  of 
old-maidishness,  the  bachelor  appears  in  another 
light.  Perhaps,  who  knows,  he  was  not  wrong? 

To  sound  the  roll-call  of  the  happy  and  un 
happy  artist-folk,  whose  works  in  colour  and  clay, 
tone,  and  words,  have  aroused  the  world  to 
keener  visions  of  beauty,  is  not  my  intention; 
but  a  few  names  may  be  reeled  off.  Do  you 
remember  Alphonse  Daudet's  charming  yet 
depressing  book  of  tales  about  the  wives  of 
geniuses:  Daudet  enjoyed  a  singularly  happy  ex 
istence,  being  wedded  to  a  woman,  an  artist  her 
self,  who  aided  him  in  a  hundred  ways.  It  was 
247 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

his  whimsical  revenge,  in  a  too  successful  career, 
to  write  such  misleading  stories.  Thousands  have 
read  them,  as  millions  read  the  newspapers.  If 
one  half-baked  fellow  with  a  spongy,  viscous  soul, 
whose  conceit  has  made  rotten  his  nerves,  treats 
his  wife  badly,  or  one  feather-headed  female,  who 
has  a  singing  voice,  elopes  with  the  coachman, 
the  world  shakes  its  head  and  waggishly  smiles. 
Ah,  this  "artistic  temperament"!  Just  as  all 
the  crimes  of  the  decalogue  are  committed,  ac 
cording  to  the  shallow  agitator,  by  the  wealthy 
and  only  the  poor  are  virtuous,  so  the  artist  is 
regarded  as  a  natural-born  malefactor.  It  is  a 
survival  of  the  suspicious  feeling  against  strolling 
players,  painters,  fiddlers,  and  such  vagabonds 
of  yore. 

Yet  what  an  array  of  evidence  may  be  adduced 
in  favour  of  the  opposite  view.  When  two  poets 
like  Robert  and  Clara  Schumann,  or  two  scien 
tists  like  the  Curies,  have  lived  happily,  doesn't 
this  fact,  even  if  exceptional,  prove  the  rule? 
If  the  fixed  stars  of  the  artist-firmament  revolve 
harmoniously  one  around  the  other,  what  of  the 
lesser  planets?  Unluckily  there  are  more  comets 
and  shooting-stars  among  the  mediocre  artists. 
The  Carlyles  were  not  happy  —  not  every  day. 
Better,  however,  their  caustic  differences  than 
the  glitter  of  a  foolish  paradise. 

Life  is  not  all  beer  and  skittles  even  for  the 

favoured  artist-soul,  nor  is  Art  a  voluptuous 

hothouse.     Byron   raised   a   hell  wherever  he 

passed.    He  had  a  wife  who  was,  to  put  it  mild- 

248 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

ly,  hardly  suited  to  him.  After  only  one  suicide 
in  the  family,  Shelley  settled  down,  if  that 
ethereal  spirit  ever  could  settle  on  anything 
earthly,  with  the  original  suffragist,  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft  Godwin.  Hazlitt  philandered  with 
women  and  was  not  content  in  double  harness. 
Nor  was  much-married  John  Milton,  nor  Dante, 
nor  Shakespeare,  says  legend.  Coleridge  took 
opium,  became  a  flabby  genius,  and  daily  forgot 
his  duties.  De  Quincey  followed  suit  at  a  long 
distance,  though  gossip  avers  that  he  was  a  mild 
and  loving  husband.  William  Blake,  the  poet 
and  illustrator,  was  ecstatically  happy  during  his 
married  life.  Whether  his  wife  was,  when  he 
proposed  to  add  another  lady  to  the  household, 
we  much  doubt.  Wordsworth  cultivated  the 
domestic  virtues.  Bulwer  did  not.  Thackeray 
was  a  model  husband  and  suffered  stoically  the 
misfortune  of  his  wife's  madness.  Dickens  didn't 
draw  happiness  in  his  lottery.  Disraeli  did,  also 
Tennyson.  Thomas  Hardy  is  happily  mated. 
George  Moore  is  a  bachelor  —  and  writes  like 
one.  Jane  Austen  would  not  have  been  the 
"  divine  Jane  "  if  she  had  married.  George  Eliot, 
of  whom  it  was  said  that  she  was  a  "  George 
Sand  plus  science  and  minus  sex,"  shocked  the 
British  public,  yet  remained  ever  eminently 
British  herself,  conventional  to  the  last.  Rus- 
kin  tried  matrimony  and  handed  his  wife  over 
to  Millais,  the  artist.  It  was  a  good  transaction 
for  all  three.  Emerson  was  married.  Haw 
thorne  and  Longfellow  were  married.  Poe 
adored  Virginia,  his  child-wife. 

.  249 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Across  seas  the  plot  thickens.  There  are  as 
many  happy  households  in  France  as  anywhere. 
But  it  is  hard  to  convince  English-speaking  peo 
ple  of  this  very  potent  fact.  The  Parisian  bo- 
hemians  have  set  a  pace  that  makes  Puritans 
giddy.  George  Sand,  a  contemporary  of  George 
Eliot,  is  a  mystery.  She  left  a  brutal  husband, 
met  a  mob  of  lovers  in  her  journey  through  life, 
and  ended  in  a  glow  of  respectable  old  age.  She 
had  not  one,  but  a  dozen  happy  and  unhappy 
love-lives.  And  she  loved  to  tell  the  world  all 
about  her  lovers  in  her  books.  Admirable  and 
truthful  artist!  Rabelais  was  a  Grand  Celi 
bate.  Montaigne  was  a  happy  husband.  Cha 
teaubriand  posed  all  his  life  as  the  misunder 
stood  genius.  He  had  his  consolations  and 
Madame  Recamier.  There  is  Madame  de  Stael, 
a  feminine  genius,  but  she  bored  Napoleon  and 
got  on  Goethe's  nerves.  Goethe!  He  married, 
though  not  before  he  had  burned  tapers  of  adora 
tion  before  a  half-hundred  feminine  shrines.  He 
is  the  perfect  type  of  the  inconstant  lover  who  in 
middle  life  marries  some  one  to  look  after  his 
material  comfort:  a  Don  Juan  on  the  retired  list. 
Fate  played  him  a  trick,  for  he  was  forced  to 
nurse  himself.  Lamartine  had  his  Elvira,  and 
Europe  wept  over  the  Elegies.  Victor  Hugo 
boasted  his  Juliette,  and  no  one  sympathised 
with  him  except  his  dearest  enemy,  Sainte- 
Beuve,  who  promptly  consoled  Madame  Hugo. 
Alfred  de  Musset's  career  was  notorious.  Ab 
sinthe  and  not  George  Sand  sent  him  to  the  grave. 

Alfred  de  Vigny,  a  greater  poet,  though  not  so 
250 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

well  known,  cursed  women  in  his  verse  because  of 
Marie  Dorval,  his  faithless  love.  His  marriage 
to  an  Englishwoman,  Lydia  Bunbury,  was  a 
failure.  And  the  elder  Dumas  carried  off  La 
Dorval.  Baudelaire  never  married.  Would  that 
he  had.  Verlaine  married  and  his  wife  divorced 
him.  Dumas  was  a  veritable  pasha.  His  son 
was  a  model.  Merimee,  for  a  week  George  Sand's 
lover,  later  broke  a  woman's  heart,  and  the  ac 
count  thereof  is  good  reading  for  both  cynics  and 
sentimentalists.  Flaubert  loved  his  mother  too 
much  to  marry,  but  for  years  was  entangled  by 
the  wily  Louise  Colet.  The  Goncourt  brothers 
were  born  old  bachelors,  and  if,  as  Bernard  Shaw 
asserts,  the  romantic  temperament  is  the  old- 
maid's  temperament,  then  these  two  were  spin 
sters.  They  abused  women  on  every  page  of 
their  diary,  but  spent  their  days  in  agonised  and 
acid-etching  of  her  traits  for  their  novels.  Zola 
was  a  bourgeois  husband.  Maupassant  com 
mitted  suicide,  spiritually  and  physically  — 
work,  women,  and  drugs.  Gautier,  impeccable 
artist,  laboured  in  the  unthankful  galleys  of 
journalism.  He  was  adored  by  his  wife  and  chil 
dren.  He  was  a  lovable,  good  man.  Ernest 
Renan  was  possibly  a  celibate  by  temperament, 
but  his  married  life  was  none  the  less  peaceful. 
Huysmans  was  an  embittered  bachelor.  Ana- 
tole  France  is  a  man  of  the  domestic  sort,  like 
many  scholars. 

The  musicians  are  not  as  a  rule  considered  safe 
guardians  of  the  hearth.    Some,  however,  were 

251 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

and  are  happily  married.  Haydn  had  a  scolding 
wife,  but  he  was  always  merry.  Handel  had  a 
habit  of  throwing  ladies  out  of  doors.  He  was 
much  admired  by  the  sex.  Mozart,  it  is  said, 
was  fonder  of  his  sister-in-law  than  of  his  wife. 
Who  knows?  Mendelssohn  and  his  wife  were 
turtle-doves.  Chopin  died  a  bachelor;  he  had 
loved  George  Sand  in  vain,  but  his  affair  with 
her  did  him  no  good.  Liszt  —  oh,  Liszt!  He 
ran  the  gamut  of  love  as  he  played  scales:  with 
velocity  and  brilliancy.  He  raised  a  family 
though  he  never  married  the  Countess  d'Agoult; 
she  returned  to  her  husband  later  on  and  Liszt 
was  exculpated.  "He  behaved  like  a  man  of 
honour,"  was  the  verdict  of  the  family  council 
—  meaning,  of  course,  what  a  surprise  to  find 
an  artist  not  a  blackleg !  Beethoven  loved.  He 
had  his  intimate  tragedy.  Brahms  was  also  a 
bachelor.  Is  it  necessary  to  come  down  to  our 
days?  We  see  a  wedded  Paderewski  attracting 
large  audiences.  Marriage,  therefore,  is  no  bar 
to  an  artist's  popularity. 

Painters  and  actors  could  furnish  plenty  of 
examples  did  we  care  to  linger  in  the  histori 
cal  meadows.  That  Angelo  and  Raphael  did 
not  marry  is  no  argument  against  matrimony. 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  as  readers  of  Browning  know, 
had  a  minx  for  a  wife.  Rubens  and  Van  Dyck 
spent  sunny  married  lives.  Rembrandt  loved  his 
wife,  Saskia;  also  his  later  wife,  Hendricka 
Stoffels.  Impressionist  Claude  Monet  is  married, 
while  Degas  has  cultivated  privacy.  Whistler 

J252 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

was  a  contented  married  man,  and  so  Rodin. 
Monticelli  did  not  marry.  He  drank  himself  to 
death.  Ibsen  was  a  paragon  of  a  family  man. 
Tolstoy  abused  matrimonial  chains,  possibly  for 
the  same  reason  that  prompted  Daudet  to  write 
his  stories  of  genius.  (But  were  Daudet's  men 
of  genius  real?  We  doubt  it.  They  seem  to  pa 
rade  a  lot  of  used-up,  second-rate  talents,  not  of 
the  true  genius  variety.)  The  Russian  writer's 
home  life  is  trumpeted  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
globe  by  his  disciples.  Is  that  why  he  wrote  The 
Kreutzer  Sonata?  On  Patti  and  her  marital  ad 
ventures,  it  is  not  in  our  scheme  of  argument  to 
dwell.  Nor  on  Marcella  Sembrich  —  whose  se 
rene  married  life  is  an  object-lesson  for  young 
singers  about  to  commit  divorce.  Rachel  — 
thanks  to  Alfred  de  Musset  and  others,  was 
usually  an  unhappy  creature.  Bernhardt  and 
Duse  have  traversed  soul-scarifying  experiences; 
but  each  had  the  courage  of  her  genius.  At  a 
time  when  there  are  no  masculine  counterparts 
in  the  theatre,  wheresoever,  of  these  two  extraor 
dinary  women,  it  is  not  tactful  for  men  to  crow 
over  their  superiority  in  the  art  mimetic.  What 
D'Annunzio  did  to  Eleanora  Duse  was  the  ac 
customed  act  of  artist-egotism:  he  utilised  the 
experience  for  his  books.  He  is  a  poet  and  a  man 
of  versatile  genius.  What  Duse  did  was  perhaps 
not  so  conscious,  yet,  nevertheless,  the  result  was 
the  same;  her  art  reflected  in  richer  tones  her 
soul's  attrition  by  sorrow.  It  is  a  sweet  idea  this : 
That  one  may  gather  emotional  shells  on  the 

253 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

sandy  beach  of  disillusionment  and  decorate  with 
them  one's  art,  later  to  be  sold  to  publishers, 
picture-dealers,  or  sung  and  played  in  concert- 
rooms.  Hail  the  mystery  of  these  artistic  trans 
mutations  !  These  transfusions  from  the  veins  of 
love,  of  the  fluid  that  is  to  prove  the  elixir  of 
your  art! 

Glance  backward  at  the  list.  The  scales  tip 
evenly.  Remember,  too,  that  of  artists'  his 
tories  the  top,  only,  is  skimmed.  Hundreds  of 
cases  could  be  dug  up.  Genius  is  hard  to  live 
with,  even  in  the  casual  ways  of  life.  Genius 
under  the  same  roof  with  genius  (and  of  the  two 
sexes)  is  a  stirring  opportunity  for  a  psycholo 
gist.  The  wonder  is  that  the  number  of  happily 
married  great  artists  —  not  the  quotidian  fry  — 
is  so  large.  The  divorce  calendar  of  butchers, 
bakers,  and  candlestick-makers  bulks  in  pro 
portion  quite  as  effectively.  But  the  doubting 
male  Thomases  may,  at  this  juncture,  quote 
Goncourt:  "There  are  no  women  of  genius;  the 
only  women  of  genius  are  men!" 

And  that  brings  us  to  the  crux  of  the  situation. 
What  is  the  artistic  temperament? 


II 

We  have  now  seen  that  artists,  like  the  lion 
and  the  lamb,  can  marry  or  mix  without  fear  of 
sudden  death,  cross  words,  bad  cookery,  or  loss 
of  artist-power.  Why  then  does  the  rule  work 
for  one  and  not  the  other?  Go  ask  the  stars. 

254 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Where  are  the  love-birds  of  yester-year?  Why 
doesn't  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  get  along  with  his 
stout  spouse?  Why  does  the  iceman  in  the  alley 
beat  his  wife?  Or,  why  does  a  woman,  who  has 
never  heard  of  Nora  Helmer,  leave  her  home, 
her  husband,  her  children,  for  the  love,  not  of  a 
cheap  histrion,  but  because  she  thinks  she  can 
achieve  fame  as  an  actress?  It  is  the  call  of  the 
far-away,  the  exotic,  the  unfamiliar.  Its  echoes 
are  heard  in  the  houses  of  bankers,  tailors,  police 
men,  and  politicians,  as  well  as  in  the  studios  of 
the  great  artists. 

But  the  news  of  the  artist's  misdemeanour  gets 
into  print  first.  The  news  is  published  early  and 
often.  A  beautiful  young  actress,  or  a  rising 
young  portrait-painter,  a  gifted  composer,  tal 
ented  sculptor,  brilliant  violinist,  rare  poet, 
versatile  writer  —  when  any  one  of  these  strays 
across  the  barrier  into  debatable  territory,  the 
watchmen  on  the  moral  towers  lustily  beat  their 
warning  gongs.  It  is  a  matter  for  headlines. 
Strong  lungs  bawl  the  naked  facts  to  the  winds. 
Depend  upon  it  —  no  matter  who  escapes  the 
public  hue  and  cry,  the  artist  is  always  found 
out  and  his  peccadilloes  proclaimed  from  pulpits 
and  housetops. 

Why,  you  ask,  should  a  devotee  of  aesthetic 
beauty  ever  allow  his  feet  to  lead  him  astray? 
Here  comes  in  your  much- vaunted,  much-dis 
cussed  " artistic  temperament" —  odious  phrase! 
Hawked  about  the  market-place,  instead  of  re 
posing  in  the  holy  of  holies,  this  temperament 

255 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

has  become  a  byword.  Every  cony-catcher,  pu 
gilist,  or  cocotte  takes  refuge  behind  his  or  her 
"art."  It  is  a  name  accursed.  When  the  tripe- 
sellers  of  literature  wish  to  rivet  upon  their  wares 
public  attention,  they  call  aloud:  "Oh,  my  ar 
tistic  temperament!"  If  an  unfortunate  is  ar 
rested,  she  is  generally  put  down  on  the  police- 
blotter  as  an  "actress."  If  a  fellow  and  his  wife 
tire  of  too  much  bliss,  their  "temperaments" 
are  aired  in  the  courts.  Worse  still,  "affinities" 
are  dragged  in.  Shades  of  Goethe!  who  wrote 
the  first  problem  novel  and  called  it  Elective 
Affinities.  All  decent  people  shudder  at  the 
word,  and  your  genuine  artist  does  not  boast 
of  his  "artistic  temperament."  It  has  become 
gutter-slang.  It  is  a  synonym  for  "nerves." 
A  true  artist  can  get  along  without  it,  keeping 
within  the  sanctuary  of  his  soul  the  ideal  that  is 
the  mainspring  of  his  work. 

The  true  artist  temperament,  hi  reality,  is  the 
perception  and  appreciation  of  beauty  whether  in 
pigment,  form,  tone,  words,  or  in  nature.  It 
may  exist  coevally  with  a  strong  religious  sense. 
It  adds  new  values  to  grey,  everyday  life.  But 
its  possessor  does  not  parade  this  personal  qual 
ity  as  an  excuse  for  licence.  That  he  leaves  to 
the  third-rate  artisan,  to  the  charlatan,  to  the 
vicious,  who  shield  their  actions  behind  a  too 
torrid  temperament. 

Now,  art  and  sex  are  co-related;  art  without 
sex  is  flavourless,  hardly  art  at  all,  only  a  frozen 
copy.  All  the  great  artists  have  been  virile. 
256 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

And  their  greatness  consisted  in  the  victory  over 
their  temperaments;  in  the  triumph,  not  of  mind 
over  matter  —  futile  phrase!  —  but  in  the  tri 
umphant  synthesis,  the  harmonious  commingle- 
ment  of  mind  and  artistic  material.  Sensualist 
your  artist  may  be,  but  if  he  is  naught  else,  then 
all  his  technical  dexterity,  his  virtuosity,  will  not 
avail  —  he  cannot  be  a  great  artist. 

Whether  artists  should  marry  is  an  eternally 
discussed  question.  It  is  so  largely  a  personal 
one  that  advice  is  surely  impertinent.  George 
Moore,  above  all  other  Victorian  novelists,  has 
described  the  true  artist-life  —  do  you  recall  his 
Mildred  Lawson?  Mr.  Shaw,  in  his  Love  Among 
the  Artists,  shows  us  other  sides.  St.  Bernard 
holds  no  brief  for  the  artist;  Shaw  is  more  of  a 
Puritan  than  his  critics  realise.  Certainly  an 
artist  is  risking  much  in  marrying,  for  the  artist 
is  both  selfish  and  sensitive.  He  has  precedents 
for  and  against  the  act,  and  probably  he  thinks 
that  whether  he  does  or  does  not,  he  will  regret  it. 

A  rainbow  mirage,  this  of  two  congenial  tem 
peraments  entering  wedlock!  When  He  ex 
claims  —  it  is  June  and  the  moon  rides  in  the 
tender  blue  —  "It  is  just  as  easy  for  two  to  live 
as  one  on  twenty-five  dollars  a  week!"  the  re 
cording  angel  smiles  and  weeps.  Nor  has  the 
young  adventurer  "  spiders  on  his  ceiling,"  as 
they  say  in  Russia.  He  dares  to  be  a  fool,  and 
that  is  the  first  step  in  the  direction  of  wisdom. 
But  She?  Oh,  She  is  enraptured.  Naturally 
they  will  economise  —  occasional  descents  into 

257 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

fifty-cent  bohemias:  sawdust,  pink  wine,  and 
wit.  But  no  new  gowns.  No  balls.  No  thea 
tres.  No  operas.  No  society.  It  is  to  be  Art! 
Art!  Art! 

So  they  bundle  their  temperaments  before  an 
official  and  are  made  one.  She  plays  the  piano. 
He  paints.  A  wonderful  vista, hazy  with  dreams, 
spreads  out  before  them.  She  will  teach  a  few 
pupils,  keep  up  her  practising,  and  put  aside 
enough  to  go,  some  day,  to  Vienna,  there  to 
study  with  a  pupil  of  Leschetizky.  He  will  man 
fully  paint  —  yes,  only  a  few  portraits;  but  land 
scape  will  be  the  object  of  his  ambition. 

A  year  passes.  What  a  difference!  Gone  are 
the  dreams.  There  are  now  many  spiders  on  the 
ceiling.  To  pay  for  the  food  they  eat,  or  to  own 
the  roof  over  their  heads  is  their  ultimate  desire. 
She  looks  paler.  He  may  or  may  not  drink,  it 
makes  little  difference.  There  are  no  portraits 
painted  —  an  artist  must  be  a  half  society  man 
nowadays  to  capture  such  commissions.  She 
would  accept  pupils,  but  their  home  engrosses 
every  hour  of  her  day.  Artists  usually  demand 
too  much  of  a  woman.  She  must  be  a  social 
success,  a  maternal  nurse,  a  cook,  and  concubine 
combined.  Women  are  versatile.  They  are 
born  actresses.  But  on  ten  dollars  a  week  they 
can't  run  a  household,  watch  the  baby  —  oh, 
thrice  wretched  intruder!  —  play  like  a  second 
Fanny  Bloomfield  Zeisler,  and  look  like  an  houri. 
To  be  a  steam-heated  American  beauty,  your 
father  must  be  a  millionaire. 

258 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

The  artist-woman  is  a  finely  attuned  fiddle. 
You  may  mend  a  fiddle,  but  not  a  bell,  says  Ib 
sen.  Yes,  but  if  you  smash  a  fiddle,  the  music 
is  mute.  And  every  day  of  discontent  snaps  a 
string.  How  long  does  the  beauty  last?  Then  be 
gin  mutual  misunderstandings.  Pity,  the  most 
subtly  cruel  of  the  virtues,  stalks  the  studio. 
Secretly  she  pities  him;  secretly  he  pities  her. 
This  pity  breeds  hatred.  At  breakfast,  the  most 
trying  time  of  the  day  —  even  when  you  haven't 
anything  to  eat  —  he  pities  her  flushed  face  as 
she  runs  in  from  the  kitchen  with  the  eggs  and 
coffee.  In  his  eyes  she  is  no  longer  a  sylph. 
(The  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  are  shrunk.) 
She  pities  him  because  he  is  flushed  from  his 
night's  outing.  His  appetite,  like  his  temper,  is 
capricious.  In  her  eyes,  he  is  simply  the  ordi 
nary  male  brute,  which  is  true  enough.  Then  he 
is  imprudent  and  flings  Schopenhauer  at  her. 

Have  you  noticed  how  often  well-bred,  book 
ish,  and  artist  men  quote  Schopenhauer  at  their 
wives?  The  bow-legged,  long-haired  sex  —  eh! 
Aha!  He  rubs  his  hands.  Women  are,  all  said 
and  done,  the  inferior  sex!  What  did  lago  re 
mark  —  but  he  doesn't  like  to  quote  that  speech 
of  the  Ancient's  with  its  chronicling  of  small  beer 
for  fear  his  wife  may  turn  quietly  upon  him  with 
the  monosyllable  —  " Beer!"  He  hates  to  be 
twitted  about  his  faults,  so  he  takes  up  Nietz 
sche's  Beyond  Good  and  Evil  and  reads:  "That 
because  of  woman's  cookery,  the  development  of 
mankind  has  been  longest  retarded."  Or,"  Wom 
an—the  Eternally  Tedious!"  Or,  "Woman 

259 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

has  hitherto  been  most  despised  by  Woman!" 
It  is  not  in  good  taste,  all  this. 

But  she  has  no  time  to  quote  Ibsen  and  Shaw 
for  his  discomfiture.  The  milkman  is  keeping 
her  busy  by  asking  for  the  amount  of  his  bill. 
As  baby  must  have  pure  milk,  she  compromises 
by  smiling  at  her  foolish  young  man  and  teases 
him  for  the  money.  He  dives  into  empty  pockets 
and  looks  blankly  at  her.  Sometimes  this  goes 
on  for  years;  often  in  reckless  despair  he  throws 
his  lamp  over  the  moon  and  she  her  bonnet  over 
the  wind-mill.  Female  suffrage  may  make  such 
conditions  impossible  in  the  future  by  forbidding 
men  the  ballot. 

Yet,  how  many  happy  artist  households  there 
are !  Sometimes  the  couple  paint  a  quatre  mains, 
as  Manet  puts  it;  sometimes  the  wife  is  sim 
ply  a  woman  and  not  an  artist.  Nor  dare  we 
claim  that  this  latter  species  of  union  is  always 
the  happier.  It  may  not  be.  She  may  be  a 
nightmare  to  him,  a  millstone  around  his  neck, 
through  sheer  stupidity  or  lack  of  sympathy. 
Men,  ordinary  males,  like  to  be  coddled;  artist- 
men,  in  whom  there  is  often  a  thin  streak  of 
feminine  vanity,  must  be  subtly  flattered.  The 
nerves  lie  near  the  surface  in  artist  people. 
Idealists,  they  paint  with  their  imagination 
everything  in  too  bright  hues.  Labour,  really, 
puts  them  out.  It  is  the  same  young  man  and 
the  same  young  woman  who,  under  pine-blos 
soms,  swore  undying  love  —  the  same,  except 
that  a  year  or  several  have  passed. 

As  is  always  the  case,  the  rather  despised 
260 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Womanly- Woman  —  the  woman  of  the  feather 
bed  temperament,  who  is  neither  dove  nor  devil 
—  gathers  the  honours.  She  knows  that  the 
artist-man,  that  hopeless  hybrid,  so  admirably 
apostrophised  by  Shaw  in  the  first  act  of  Man 
or  Superman,  must  be  humoured.  (Feed  the 
brute!)  He  is  the  spoilt  child  of  Fate.  If  he 
goes  too  far  from  his  mamma's  apron-strings,  he 
gets  into  trouble,  falls  into  the  mud-puddle  of 
life,  and  is  sure  to  drag  some  silly  girl  with  him. 
So  she,  being  wise  with  the  instinctive  wisdom 
of  her  sex  —  the  Womanly- Woman,  I  mean  — 
I  have  seldom  encountered  a  Womanly- Woman 
who  was  also  an  artist  —  plays  him  to  the  end  of 
the  rope,  and  then  he  is  back  at  her  knees.  Such 
marriages  are  successful  for  the  reason  that  the 
artist-husband  doesn't  have  time  to  be  unhappy. 
It  is  when  the  lean  years  are  upon  the  artist, 
the  years  of  thin  thought  and  bleak  regrets,  that 
he  will  miss  a  loving  wife.  Then  he  will  cry 
in  the  stilhiess  of  his  heart:  0  Time,  eternal 
shearer  of  souls,  spare  me  thy  slow  clippings! 
Shear  me  in  haste,  shear  me  close  and  swiftly! 
He  is  the  literary  artist,  and  even  in  the  face  of 
death  he  wears  the  shop-mask.  His  "affinity," 
whom  he  has  never  encountered  at  the  epoch  of 
their  earthly  pilgrimage,  congratulates  herself 
that  the  latter  lonesome  years  will  not  be  bur 
dened  by  the  whims  and  ills  of  an  old  man.  She 
may  possess  the  artist  temperament  and  be  a 
spinster.  Often  she  escapes  that  fate  by  early 
marriage  to  a  solid,  sensible  business  or  profes- 
261 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

sional  man,  who  pays  the  bills  and  admires  her 
pasty  painting,  her  facile,  empty  music-making, 
her  unplayed  plays,  unread  novels,  and  verse  — 
that  are  privately  printed.  Sensible  old  Nature, 
as  ever,  thus  hits  the  happy  mean. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  draw  any  particular  in 
ference  from  the  foregoing,  save  to  add  that  the 
" artistic  temperament"  is  not  what  the  news 
papers  represent  it  to  be;  that  when  it  exists  in 
association  with  high  ideals  and  natural  gifts,  the 
result  is  sincere  art;  that  it  is  hardly  a  quality 
making  for  happiness;  that  men  and  women, 
whether  artists  or  mediocrities,  must  fight  the 
inevitable  duel  of  the  sexes  until  death  do  them 
part;  and  finally,  that  the  breakfast-room  epi 
sode  referred  to  is  a  comedy  played  daily  all 
over  the  globe,  and  the  hero  need  not  be  a  painter 
—  for  a  rising  young  plumber  can  assume  the 
role  with  equal  success.  A  sense  of  the  humor 
ous  would  save  half  the  family  jars  in  house 
holds,  artistic  and  inartistic.  The  spectacle  of 
two  bipeds  strutting  and  fuming  beneath  the 
glimpses  of  the  sun,  while  over  yonder  the  vast 
cosmic  spaces  are  undergoing  the  birth  of  new 
constellations  —  surely  the  very  angels  in  heaven 
must  sit  in  reserved  stalls,  ironically  spying  upon 
humanity's  antics.  After  all,  an  artist  is  a 
human  being;  this  fact  is  too  often  forgotten  by 
writers  who  see  in  the  man  of  talent,  or  genius, 
a  mixture  of  gorilla,  god,  or  madman. 

To  the  young  artist  who  has  mustered  his 
material  the  spectacle  of  the  world  is  an  allur- 
262 


THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  WIFE 

ing  one.  He  stands  on  the  brink  and  the  great 
stream  of  life  flows  by  bearing  upon  its  bosom 
gaily  decorated  barges,  glittering  with  lights, 
flowers,  with  beauty.  He  is  tempted.  It  is  so 
easy  to  step  on  board  and  be  carried  away  on 
this  intoxicating  current.  Besides,  it  means  suc 
cess.  He  may  be  a  lover  of  beautiful  things. 
He  may  even  be  domestic  and  desire  a  home,  a 
family.  And  the  latter  reef  is  often  as  danger 
ous  to  his  art  as  the  rocks  on  the  coast  of  Bo 
hemia.  But  whatever  he  does  he  must  make  the 
choice  —  there  is  no  middle  way.  All  or  noth 
ing.  The  world  or  art.  Paul  Gauguin  has  said 
that  all  artists  are  either  revolutionists  or  re 
actionists.  The  former  state  may  mean  glory 
without  bread;  the  latter  always  means  bread. 
And  if  our  young  artist  can  live  on  bread  alone 
let  him  say  to  his  ideals:  "Get  thee  behind 
me/'  But  if  he  is  true  to  his  temperament  then 
will  his  motto  be  —  plain  living  and  high  paint 
ing.  All  the  rest  is  vanity  and  varnish. 


263 


X 

BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

GAUTIER  THE  JOURNALIST 

THERE  was  a  popping  of  critical  guns  in  Paris 
for  the  celebration  of  the  centenary  of  Theo- 
phile  Gautier,  August  31,  1911,  and  while  there 
was  much  florid  writing  about  Gautier  the  poet 
and  Gautier  the  romancer,  little  was  said  about 
his  career  as  a  journalist.  Perforce  a  final  es 
timate  of  the  man  is  made  from  his  work  be 
tween  covers,  because  the  greater  part  of  his 
vast  production  is  hidden  away  in  the  numerous 
musty  files  of  newspapers  and  magazines  the 
very  names  of  which  are  forgotten.  According 
to  his  son-in-law,  Emile  Bergerat,  the  writings  of 
the  "good  Theo"  would  if  collected  fill  more 
than  three  hundred  volumes.  Not  a  bad  show 
ing  for  one  whose  legend  was  that  of  Olympian 
laziness  and  a  voluptuous  impassibility  in  the 
presence  of  the  dear,  common  joys  of  mankind! 
But  it  is  all  a  legend  as  legendary  as  the  indif 
ference  and  inactivity  of  Goethe,  an  untruth 
uttered  by  Heine,  when  every  hour  of  a  long 
life  was  crowded  with  his  activities  as  states 
man,  man  of  science,  poet,  dramatist,  novelist, 
and  administrator  of  public  affairs  at  Weimar. 
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BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

Gautier  played  the  role1  of  an  easy-going  boule- 
vardier;  in  private  he  bitterly  complained  of  his 
slavery  to  the  Grub  street  of  his  beloved  Paris. 
Nevertheless  this  same  journalism  was  his  sal 
vation,  otherwise  he  might  have  found  himself 
in  the  wretched  condition  of  his  friends  Charles 
Baudelaire,  Petrus  Borel,  Gerard  de  Nerval,  and 
Villiers  de  1'Isle-Adam.  What  distinguished  him 
from  these  bohemians  of  genius  was  his  capacity 
for  work.  He  possessed  a  giant's  physique  and 
his  nerves  were  seemingly  of  steel.  He  once 
wrote : 

"There  is  this  much  good  in  journalism,  that 
it  mixes  you  up  with  the  crowd,  humanises  you 
by  perpetually  giving  you  your  own  measure, 
and  preserves  you  from  the  infatuations  of  soli 
tary  pride." 

Baudelaire  and  Villiers  and  the  rest  of  the 
bohemian  crew  might  have  profited  by  this. 

And  what  a  crew  of  bohemians  were  his  friends 
in  1831,  those  poor  chaps  of  great  promise  and 
little  production!  Their  "Tartar's  camp"  was 
pitched  in  an  open  space  in  the  Rue  Roche- 
chouart  until  driven  away  by  the  police.  Their 
motto  was  "  Clothing  is  prohibited."  Louis  Ber- 
trand,  "Gaspard  de  la  Nuit,"  as  he  was  better 
known,  died  in  want  and  his  body  was  thrown 
into  potter's  field.  Petrus  Borel,  at  one  time 
acclaimed  as  the  true  head  of  the  Romantic 
revolution  and  superior  to  Victor  Hugo,  died  in 
exile,  his  talents  run  to  seed.  How  many  others 
did  the  young  Gascon  Gautier  see  come  to 
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naught?  He  was  philistine  enough  to  read  the 
handwriting  on  the  wall;  besides,  he  had  the 
illustrious  example  of  his  chief,  Victor  Hugo, 
who  proved  himself  canny  in  dealing  with  money 
matters,  a  sort  of  Jovian  bourgeois,  in  whose 
romanticism  there  lurked  a  practical  flavour. 
He  never  wore  a  scarlet  waistcoat;  perhaps 
he  didn't  care  for  the  colour,  though  he  allowed 
his  disciples  any  manner  of  extravagance  so  long 
as  it  furthered  his  own  ambition. 

Those  pseudo-Parisian  pagan  poets  who  set 
such  store  on  Gautier's  revolt  against  the  canons 
of  art,  society,  and  religion  might  profitably 
pattern  after  their  master  in  his  sane  and  solid 
performances  in  verse  and  prose.  His  full  name 
was  Pierre  Jules  Theophile  Gautier,  and  though 
he  was  born  in  Tarbes  (Hautes-Pyrenees,  August 
31,  1811)  he  was  of  Provencal  origin.  But  there 
was  little  of  the  conventional  southern  expansive- 
ness  or  vivacity  in  his  makeup;  a  rather  moody, 
melancholic  man  despite  his  robust  humours, 
robust  appetites.  He  wore  a  mask;  that  mask 
was  romanticism.  Nevertheless  he  never  suc 
cumbed  to  the  vapours  and  mouthings  of  those 
sons  of  Belial.  He  always  kept  his  head,  even 
when  he  experimented  with  haschisch  in  com 
pany  with  Baudelaire  at  the  famous  H6tel 
Pimadon.  The  truth  about  him  is  that  he  was  a 
hard-working  journalist,  a  good  husband  and 
loving  father;  solicitous  of  the  welfare  of  his 
family  and  unrelaxing  in  his  labours.  Over  his 
desk  hung  this  grim  reminder:  "A  daily  news- 
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paper  appears  daily."  He  never  forgot  it,  and 
from  his  atelier  at  Neuilly  he  sent  his  daily  stint 
of  columns,  poorly  remunerated  as  he  was  for 
them.  He  never  went  into  debt  like  his  friend 
Balzac.  If  you  haven't  read  his  books  you  may 
well  imagine  him  an  unromantic  and  honest 
business  man  instead  of  a  composer  of  most 
fantastic,  delightful  dreams  and  romances. 

When  Gautier  first  came  up  to  Paris  it  was 
with  the  intention  of  becoming  a  painter.  He 
had  the  painter's  eye,  the  quick,  retentive  vision, 
the  colour  sense;  above  all  the  sense  of  com 
position.  He  entered  the  studio  of  Rioult  for  a 
period  and  then  he  read  Sainte-Beuve,  Hugo, 
and  the  Young  France  school,  and  he  knew  that 
his  vocation  was  not  paint  but  letters.  How 
ever,  he  is  always  the  painter  in  his  prose  and 
verse,  full  of  imagery,  yet  concrete,  supple,  vivid 
of  hue,  brilliant,  and  harmonious.  His  oft- 
quoted  saying  that  he  was  "a  man  for  whom  the 
visible  world  existed "  is  true  enough,  though  in 
a  much  more  limited  sense  than  his  admirers 
may  realise.  He  was  one  of  the  greatest  de 
scriptive  writers  in  the  French  language,  ranking 
immediately  after  Chateaubriand  and  Flaubert 
without  the  dazzling  verbal  magic  of  the  former 
or  the  subtle  harmonious  modulations  of  the 
latter.  The  form  of  Gautier  is  fixed;  he  treats 
all  themes  with  unfailing  and  unvarying  brill 
iancy.  His  style  is  never  so  sensitively  modu 
lated  as  Flaubert's  in  accordance  with  the  idea. 
Flaubert  is  ever  in  modulation;  Gautier  is,  as 
267. 


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Huy smarts  declared,  "a  gigantic  impersonal  re 
flector."  We  may  demur  to  the  charge  of  im 
personality,  but  there  is  no  denying  the  occa 
sional  monotonous  effect  of  his  overcoloured 
orchestration.  He  was  a  "visualist,"  not  an 
" auditive,"  as  the  psychologists  have  it;  the 
image  with  him  proceeded  from  things  seen, 
hence  he  has  been  accused  of  lack  of  imagina 
tion  and  of  a  dearth  of  " general  ideas."  To  be 
sure  he  did  not  meddle  with  politics;  his  atti 
tude  toward  socialism  was  of  unaffected  scorn, 
and  he  could  not  despite  his  genius  create  a  live 
man  or  a  woman,  as  did  Flaubert  and  Thackeray. 
He  was  not  as  profound  as  Baudelaire,  though 
less  morbid.  But  he  never  tried  to  prove  any 
thing;  he  was  a  literary  artist,  not  an  agitator. 
That  "professor  of  literature"  Emile  Faguet, 
who  has  so  beautifully  misunderstood  Stendhal 
and  Flaubert,  after  saying  of  Gautier  that  he 
knew  all  the  resources  of  the  French  language 
and  style  and  that  he  produces  incredible  effects, 
nevertheless  believes  that  he  is  doomed  to  ex 
tinction;  and  these  two  statements,  as  Mr. 
Saintsbury  points  out,  are  contradictory.  Mr. 
Saintsbury's  "  ancient  lawyer,"  father  of  a 
family,  who  found  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  a 
"most  beautiful  book,"  would  nowadays  dis 
cover  others  to  assent  to  his  judgment.  Made 
moiselle  de  Maupin,  written  in  1835,  is  as 
unmoral  as  Mother  Goose;  and  in  the  once  no 
torious  preface,  as  significant  for  Gautier's  gen 
eration  as  was  the  preface  to  Hugo's  Cromwell, 
268 


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we  suspect  the  poet  of  impudent  mockery,  of 
putting  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  as  he  did  earlier 
in  Les  Jeunes-France.  He  had  a  sense  of  humour 
if  Hugo  had  not. 

But  there  was  another  Gautier.  The  pan 
theist  who  could  boast  that  "I  am  a  man  for 
whom  the  visible  world  exists"  could  also  con 
fess  that  reality  evoked  in  him  fantastic  dreams, 
that  men  and  women  were  as  a  world  of  pale 
shadows.  His  nerves  were  not  always  in  tune. 
He  is  his  own  D' Albert,  suffering  from  the  nos 
talgia  of  the  ideal.  Strange  too  that  this  lover 
of  the  concrete  should  occupy  himself  for  so  many 
years  with  ideas  of  death,  decay,  the  horrors  of 
the  tomb  and  of  mummies  and  vampires  re 
vivified.  In  his  sonorous,  rhythmic  daylight 
prose  he  attempted  again  and  again  to  pin  down 
the  impalpable  in  a  phrase.  How  many  of  his 
tales  deal  with  the  spirit,  and  fail.  The  Dead 
Leman  (1836),  a  wonderful  piece  of  art,  is  frankly 
materialistic;  but  what  fancy,  what  verve! 
There  is  bold  fantasy  a-plenty,  yet  the  externals 
of  the  soul  are  only  scratched.  Gautier  strove 
to  sound  spiritual  overtones  and  failed.  His 
most  successful  rehabilitation  of  a  past  epoch 
is  Le  Capitaine  Fracasse  (1863),  as  successful 
in  preserving  tonal  unity  as  Thackeray's  Es 
mond.  And  Une  Nuit  de  Cleopatre  (1845),  so 
sympathetically  translated  into  English  by  Laf- 
cadio  Hearn,  rivals  Salainmbo  in  its  exotic 
colouring  and  arch^olo^ical  splendour.  The 
travel  books,  Spain,  Constantinople,  Russia, 
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Algeria,  Italy,  and  others,  are  models  of  their 
genre.  Their  author  headed  the  vanguard  of 
the  new  men,  though  he  didn't  wear  his  heart  in  a 
sling  or  his  sensibilities  on  his  sleeve,  as  do  those 
artistic  descendants  of  Chateaubriand,  Pierre 
Loti  and  Maurice  Barres.  Gautier's  Spain  is 
as  fresh  as  it  was  the  day  it  was  written.  As  a 
poet  he  is  best  known  by  his  polished  Emaux 
et  Camees  (1852),  in  which  the  artistry  out 
shines  the  poetic  significance.  His  first  verse 
appeared  in  print  in  1830.  Within  a  narrow 
range  he  is  a  poet,  but  it  is  for  the  most  part 
verse  for  the  eye,  not  the  ear.  This  is  as  might 
be  expected  from  one  who  decries  the  expression 
of  the  sensibilities  as  shown  in  De  Musset  or 
Coppee  and  who  believes  so  firmly  in  the  su 
premacy  of  art,  in  its  immortality.  He  saw  the 
secret  correspondences  of  things  remotely  re 
lated.  He  was  pantheistic  to  the  marrow. 
Henry  James  once  wrote  of  him:  "But  if  there 
are  sermons  in  stones,  there  are  profitable  re 
flections  to  be  made  even  on  Theophile  Gautier, 
notably  this  one,  that  a  man's  supreme  use  in  the 
world  is  to  master  his  intellectual  instrument  and 
play  it  in  perfection."  This  is  happily  put,  and 
in  that  qualifying  "even"  all  the  secret  of  the 
critical  art  of  Henry  James  may  be  lodged. 

Gautier  denied  that  he  wore  a  scarlet  waist 
coat  at  the  world-stirring  Hernani  first  perform 
ance  in  1830;  it  was  a  pink  doublet,  a  distinction 
without  much  of  a  difference.  Anyhow  it  was 
a  symbol  of  his  adherence  to  revolutionary  ro- 
270 


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manticism,  though  his  revolt  was  less  a  question 
of  literary  manipulation  than  of  a  state  of  soul,  a 
manner  of  feeling.  Rousseau  and  Byron  and 
Chateaubriand,  together  with  the  moonshine 
romancers  of  Germany,  Tieck  and  the  rest,  set 
rolling  the  movement  of  1830.  How  far  Gautier 
had  outgrown  it  may  be  noted  in  the  statement 
of  Emile  Bergerat  that  his  father-in-law  toward 
the  close  of  his  life  had  grown  fond  of  Stendhal 
and  was  particularly  devoted  to  La  Chartreuse 
de  Parme.  There's  a  curious  literary  adven 
ture  for  you,  Theophile  the  gorgeous,  reading 
Stendhal,  the  siccant  psychologist.  Gautier 
first  wrote  for  the  Cabinet  de  Lecture  and  Ariel; 
then  for  France  Litteraire.  During  the  scandal 
caused  by  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  Balzac  sent 
Jules  Sandeau  for  him  and  engaged  him  to  write 
for  the  Chronique  de  Paris,  at  a  desolation-breed 
ing  salary.  He  also  "ghosted "  for  Balzac,  whom 
he  had  nicknamed  "Homere"  de  Balzac.  He 
collaborated  for  the  evening  journal  founded  by 
Nestor  Roqueplan  in  1830  entitled  La  Charte; 
this  was  about  1836.  With  Alphonse  Karr  he 
joined  the  staff  of  Figaro,  writing  feuilletons,  also 
romances  that  later  were  published  in  book  form, 
Fortunio,  for  example.  In  1837  with  Gerard  de 
Nerval  he  went  to  the  Presse  of  Girardin,  where 
he  wrote  art,  literary,  and  dramatic  criticism. 
His  criticism  has  been  criticised  as  being  too 
amiable,  an  unusual  crime  in  those  cutthroat, 
swashbuckling  days  of  the  Parisian  press.  In 
reality  he  was  too  soft-hearted  for  the  ancient 
271 


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and  honourable  art  of  cricitism.  But  reread,  van 
ished  worlds  of  art  reappear.  From  1845  to  his 
death,  at  Neuilly,  October  22,  1872,  curiously 
enough  the  sixty-first  birthday  of  Franz  Liszt, 
who  like  Gautier  was  born  in  1811,  he  wrote  for 
the  Moniteur  and  the  Journal  Officiel.  In  1867 
he  wrote  for  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction 
the  report  of  the  poetic  movement  in  France,  and 
in  1900  his  other  son-in-law,  the  poet  Catulle 
Mendes,  the  whilom  husband  of  the  gifted  Judith 
Gautier,  continued  for  M.  Georges  Leygues, 
Minister  of  Public  Instruction,  the  report  from 
1867  till  1900.  Gautier  was  associated  in  the 
Parnassian  movement  with  Catulle  Mendes  and 
Louis  Xavier  de  Ricard,  a  leading  figure  of  which 
was  the  icy  pessimist  Leconte  de  Lisle.  Theo- 
phile  was  in  his  love  of  formal  perfection  a  Greek 
at  heart. 

His  life  long  he  was  driven  by  the  lacerating 
spur  of  poverty.  The  revolution  of  1848  robbed 
him  of  his  savings  and  the  war  of  1870  quite 
ruined  him.  The  Tableaux  de  Siege  (1871)  re 
veals  an  unquiet  Gautier,  his  heart  bleeding  for 
his  native  land  ruined  by  the  conqueror,  his 
beautiful  city  blackened,  a  waste  from  the  torches 
of  the  Commune.  Sensibility  is  abundant  in  this 
book.  He  died  broken  in  spirit,  he,  the  once  gay 
journalist  who  had  boasted  that  he  never  revised 
his  manuscripts,  for  he  always  tossed  his  periods 
like  cats  in  the  air  and  they  always  fell  on  their 
feet.  Theophile  Gautier  laboured  long  and  wrote 
beautifully.  There  are  epitaphs  of  less  distinction. 
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MAETERLINCK'S  MACBETH 

The  way  of  the  translator  is  hard.  Maurice 
Maeterlinck  tells  us  this  with  inimitably  gra- 
1  cious  style  in  his  version  of  Macbeth.  His 
introduction  to  the  play  is  simple  and  per 
spicacious.  A  loving  student  for  many  years 
of  the  English  poet,  he  is  acquainted  with  the 
vast  commentary  that  has  parasitically  encum 
bered  that  giant  oak ;  his  notes  reveal  the  depth 
and  breadth  of  his  reading.  A  literary  critic 
asked  the  other  day:  Why  translate  Shakespeare? 
The  answer  is  obvious:  Because  it  is  Shake 
speare.  No  English  writer,  with  the  possible  ex 
ception  of  Chaucer,  is  so  difficult  to  transpose  to 
another  language;  yet  Shakespeare  has  been 
turned  into  nearly  every  language  and  still  re 
mains  Shakespeare.  Shelley  and  Keats,  Mar 
lowe  and  Milton  evaporate  in  translation;  but 
Shakespeare  even  when  shorn  of  his  music  re 
mains  the  essential  Shakespeare.  He  is  more 
lyrical  in  Italian,  sturdier  in  German,  more 
rhetorical  in  French;  yet  his  essence  remains. 
This  cannot  be  said  of  Goethe  in  French  or  of 
Ibsen  in  English.  If,  as  has  been  contended  by 
modern  iconoclastic  critics,  the  philosophy  of 
Shakespeare  is  borrowed  from  Montaigne,  his 
humour  from  Rabelais,  and  his  history  from 
Plutarch,  Holinshed,  and  the  Italian  romancers, 
and  if  his  poetry  is  not  translatable,  what  then  is 
the  secret  of  his  power  when  garbed  in  foreign 

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language?  Maeterlinck  does  not  pose  this 
question,  though  he  is  conscious  of  its  com 
plexity. 

His  introduction  poses  as  a  preliminary  the 
question  of  the  trilogy,  Hamlet,  Lear,  and  Mac 
beth.  The  last  is  in  the  world  of  tragedy  a 
solitary  peak  which  ^Eschylus  alone  could  have 
attained.  Many  critics  will  disagree  with  this 
contention,  for  Lear  has  been  held  to  be  the 
Himalayan  summit.  However,  we  can  but  fall 
in  line  with  the  Belgian  poet  at  present,  for  he  is 
chiefly  concerned  with  Macbeth.  He  finds  the 
play  a  sort  of  biography  more  or  less  legendary;  it 
floats  on  the  confines  of  history  and  legend.  The 
form  is  confused,  the  chief  characters  not  sym 
pathetic.  Macbeth  is  not  a  piece  lien  faite;  it 
is  too  long.  Of  the  more  than  two  thousand 
verses  about  one-fifth  must  be  suppressed  for 
representation.  This  history  of  two  crowned 
assassins  is  repugnant,  for  their  intelligence  is 
mediocre,  their  morals  on  the  other  side  of  good 
and  evil,  their  show  of  repentance  null;  in  a  word, 
there  is  little  in  the  machinery  of  the  drama  to 
win  our  approbation.  All  the  qualities  that  do 
not  go  to  making  a  masterpiece  are  absent. 
Nevertheless,  a  masterpiece  Macbeth  is,  and  one 
that  quite  o'ercrows  Corneille,  Racine,  Goethe  — 
we  are  now  quoting  Maeterlinck,  who  sets  him 
self  the  task  of  again  solving  the  enigma.  For 
the  scholarly  Frenchman  from  Voltaire  to  Fa- 
guet  a  play  must  be  literature  as  well  as  moving 
drama.  It  must  develop  logically  according  to 
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canon.  If  not  Greek  then  Gallic.  Maeter 
linck,  with  his  Flemish  temperament,  you  are 
tempted  to  add  his  Gothic  fond,  has  no  such 
scholastic  scruples.  His  own  theatre  shows  him 
a  poet  who  first  supped  on  the  enchantments, 
mysteries,  and  horrors  of  the  Elizabethan  and 
later  writers.  He  knows  Marlowe  as  well  as 
Webster,  John  Ford  as  well  as  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  Thus  it  may  be  seen  that  Macbeth, 
with  its  profound  painting  of  sinister  souls,  dmes 
damnees,  would  stir  him  to  his  marrow. 

He  points  out  the  impersonality  of  the  poet, 
the  conversational  diapason,  a  realistic  speech  so 
often  to  be  found;  above  all  his  favourite  thesis 
that  a  dramatist  of  the  first  order  can  suggest 
the  " interior  dialogue"  (see  Maeterlinck's  re 
marks  on  Ibsen's  Masterbuilder)  is  in  the  case 
of  Shakespeare  triumphantly  vindicated.  The 
very  pauses  in  Macbeth  are  pregnant  with 
horror.  The  detestable  crime  is  but  the  frame 
work  around  which  hovers  the  echo  of  the  super 
natural.  Voices  of  the  human  conscience,  sound 
less  overtones  of  guilty  souls,  flood  the  air.  Nor 
does  Maeterlinck  revel  in  transcendental  ec 
stasies.  If  he  is  the  poet  in  dealing  with  Shake 
speare,  he  is  also  the  cool-headed  man  of  the  the 
atre.  He  realises  the  miracle  of  Macbeth,  but, 
like  Goethe,  he  knows  that  every  great  work  of 
art  is  immensurable,  even  to  its  creator. 

And  the  translation!  There's  the  rub.  If, 
says  Maeterlinck,  a  landscape  is  a  state  of  soul 
(Stendhal's  etat  d'dme),  so  is  a  translation.  He 

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rehearses  the  various  attempts  to  make  Shake 
speare  domesticated  in  the  French  tongue  from 
Pierre  Letourneur,  Francois  Victor  Hugo  —  not 
to  be  confounded  with  his  father  —  Benjamin 
Laroche,  Maurice  Pottecher,  Alexandre  Beljame 
to  his  own.  (He  does  not  mention  the  Hamlet 
of  Marcel  Schwob  and  Morand.)  Fidelity  to 
the  rhythmic  movement,  verbal  music,  poetic 
spirit,  local  colour,  idiomatic  or  interpretative  — 
how  many  rocks  there  are  in  the  road  of  the  con 
scientious  translator,  tormented  alike  by  the 
majesty  and  humanity  of  Shakespeare's  speech! 
Maeterlinck  gives  as  an  example  the  lines  (Act 
III,  last  scene) : 

"Strange  things  I  have  in  head  that  will  to  hand 
Which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scanned." 

Hugo  thus  renders  the  speech:  "J'ai  dans  la 
tete  d'etranges  choses  qui  reclament  ma  main  et 
veulent  etre  executees  avant  d'etre  meditees"  — 
which  is  clumsy  and  unrhythmic.  Beljame's 
version  is  better,  so  is  Pottecher's.  Guizot, 
Montegut,  Laroche,  and  Georges  Duval  are 
adduced.  We  like  best  of  all  Maeterlinck's,  as 
follows:  "  J'ai  dans  la  tete  d'etranges  choses  qui 
aboutiront  a  ma  main;  et  qu'il  faut  accomplir 
avant  qu'on  les  ait  meditees."  We  are  here  far 
from  the  famous  French  version  of  "Frailty,  thy 
name  is  woman,"  which  appeared  as  "Mile. 
Frailty  is  the  name  of  a  lady." 

But  Maurice  Maeterlinck,  with  his  funds 
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of  poetic  sympathy  and  subtle  intuitions,  his 
tact,  knowledge,  and  verbal  versatility,  can  suc 
cessfully  bridge  the  gulf  that  lies  between  the 
genius  of  the  English  language  and  the  genius  of 
the  French  language.  We  select  several  of  the 
famous  single  lines  as  specimens  and  admire  the 
agile  resources  of  the  translator.  For  example: 
"Quand  nous  retrouverons-nous?  "  is  the  equiv 
alent  for  "When  shall  we  three  meet  again? " 
"Fair  is  foul  and  foul  is  fair"  becomes  "Le  laid 
est  beau  et  le  beau  laid."  These  are  not  very 
difficult  tests. 

The  onomatopoeia  is  of  necessity  missed  in  the 
speech:  "  A  drum,  a  drum!  Macbeth  doth  come." 
In  French:  "Le  tambour!  Le  tambour!  Mac 
beth  arrive  ici!"  Nor  is  "eteins-toi,  eteins-toi, 
court  flambeau!"  quite  akin  to  "Out,  out,  brief 
candle ! "  "  Frappe  done,  Macduff ,  et  damne  soit 
celui  qui  criera  le  premier:  'Arrete!  c'est  assez!' ' 
retains  some  of  the  primal  rhythmic  vigour  and 
assonance  of  "Lay  on,  Macduff;  and  damned  be 
he  that  first  cries  'Hold,  enough!'"  "Hang 
out  your  banners  on  the  outward  walls"  is  ren 
dered:  "  Deploy ez  vos  bannieres  sur  les  rem- 
parts  exterieurs,"  a  faithful  transcription. 

Spme  of  the  tirades  are  admirably  para 
phrased,  strange  though  they  sound  to  English 
ears.  The  ferocity  of  Lady  Macbeth's  speech, 
Act  I,  scene  5,  misses  neither  in  meaning  nor 
in  terrible  intonations;  and  Maeterlinck  has 
fairly  succeeded,  we  are  fain  to  believe,  with  such 
a  snarl  as: 

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"Hie  thee  hither, 

That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear 
And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crowned  withal." —  Act  I,  scene  5. 

With  Maeterlinck  this  goes  to  the  tune  of 
"  Viens  ici  que  je  puisse  verser  mon  courage  dans 
ton  oreille  et  chatier  par  la  vaillance  de  mes 
paroles  tous  les  obstacles  au  cercle  d'or  dont  le 
destin  et  un  appui  surnaturel  semblent  te  cou- 
ronner,"  which  is  bald  prose.  (Is  it  not  odd  that 
Richard  Strauss  should  have  selected  this  as  a 
motto  for  his  tone  poem  Macbeth?)  The  gross 
humour  of  the  Porter  in  the  knocking  at  the  gate 
scene  is  not  attenuated,  though  we  must  protest 
against  such  a  supersubtlety  as  "le  trop  boire  est 
lejesuite  de  la  paillardise"  (the  italic  is  ours)  for 
"much  drink  may  be  said  to  be  an  equivocator 
of  lechery." 

We  need  not  quote  further  to  prove  that  if 
Maeterlinck  does  not  overcome  insuperable 
difficulties  he  has  accomplished  much  more  than 
the  majority  of  his  predecessors.  It  is  a  brill 
iant  performance,  this  translation,  superior  to 
work  for  which  many  a  man  has  attained  a  seat 
in  the  French  Academy.  This  version  sustained 
the  trial  of  a  public  performance  at  the  Abbey  of 
Saint  Wandrille  with  Mme.  Georgette  Leblanc- 
Maeterlinck  as  Lady  Macbeth. 


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PATER  REREAD 

Rereading  a  favourite  author  is  very  much 
like  meeting  after  years  of  absence  a  once-beloved 
friend.  A  nervous  dread  that  your  expectations 
may  not  be  realised  overtakes  you  as  you  match 
your  old  and  new  sensations.  Not  every  great 
writer  can  be  reread.  The  time-spirit  sometimes 
intervenes;  and  one's  own  moods  are  not  to  be 
lightly  passed  over.  Especially  is  this  the  case 
with  a  marked  personality  such  as  that  of  Walter 
Pater,  a  new  library  edition  of  whose  works,  hi  ten 
stately  volumes,  is  just  completed.  Will  he  sur 
vive  a  second,  a  third,  a  tenth  reading?  you  ask 
as  you  open  somewhat  anxiously  these  pages  with 
their  wide  margins.  Will  the  old  magic  operate? 
And  then  the  disturber  appears,  some  belated 
antiquarian  moralist  who  exclaims:  "Ha!  A 
hedonist!"  A  disquieting  assertion.  No  wonder 
Pater  rather  pathetically  complained  to  Mr. 
Gosse :  "I  wish  they  wouldn't  call  me  a  hedonist; 
it  produces  such  a  bad  effect  on  the  minds  of 
people  who  don't  know  Greek."  No  doubt  call 
ing  Pater  an  immoralist  has  had  its  bad  effect  on 
people  who  don't  know  anything  about  litera 
ture.  "  In  the  House  of  Morality  there  are  many 
mansions,"  declared  Henley.  Pater  lives  in  one 
of  them,  despite  the  mock  puritanical  attitude 
of  a  few  critics  who  still  adhere  to  the  naughty- 
boy  theory  and  practice  of  criticism,  with  its 
doling  out  of  bad  marks.  The  didactic  spirit 
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ever  fails  to  interpret.  Consider  the  uneasy 
moral  itch  from  which  Ruskin  and  Brunetiere 
suffered. 

Our  personal  experience  on  rereading  Pater 
was  pleasant.  The  bogy  man  of  hedonism  did 
not  frighten  us  off;  nor  did  the  palpable  fact  that 
Pater  is  never  altogether  for  Apollo  or  alto 
gether  for  Christ.  Indeed,  in  the  Aristippean 
flux  and  reflux  of  his  ideas  we  discerned  a  strong 
family  likeness  to  the  theories  of  William  James 
and  Henri  Bergson;  a  pragmatism  poetically 
transfigured.  That  once  famous  suppressed  Con 
clusion  to  the  Renaissance  is  quite  abreast  with 
modern  notions  of  the  plastic  universe.  You  are 
reminded  too  of  Renan  —  Renan,  who,  no  more 
than  Pater,  suffered  from  the  "  mania  of  certi 
tude."  But  the  silken  insincerities  of  the  French 
man  are  not  to  be  surprised  in  Pater's  golden  sen 
tences.  He  indulged  at  times  in  certain  affecta 
tions,  dandyisms  of  style,  or  mood;  in  essentials, 
however,  he  is  always  earnest.  His  scholarship 
may  not  have  been  of  the  profoundest,  his  criti 
cisms  of  art  not  those  of  an  expert;  nevertheless 
he  wrote  open-mindedly  and  to  the  best  of  his 
ability  —  and  what  a  wonderful  "best"  it  was! 
—  and  always  with  humanity  in  his  mind's  eye. 
He  distilled  from  art  and  literature  a  "quickened 
sense  of  life,"  and  in  his  books  is  the  quintes 
sence,  the  very  ecstasy  of  experience.  He 
"loaded  every  rift  of  his  subject  with  ore,"  and 
despite  his  reputation  for  priggish  erudition,  a 
delicate  humour,  not  untipped  with  irony,  lines 
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the  back  of  many  a  paragraph.  To  read  him 
often  would  be  like  a  surfeit  of  Chopin  or  cara 
mels.  The  figure  of  Pater  the  humanist,  rather 
than  Pater  the  verbal  virtuoso,  is  getting  more 
distinct  with  the  years. 

His  morals  are  not  exposed  with  a  brassy  or 
chestration.  He  never  tries  to  prove  anything, 
a  relief  in  these  days  of  cruel  didacticism.  He 
is  both  ardent  and  sceptical,  and  could  have  said 
with  Maurice  Barres  that  "  felicity  must  be  in 
the  experimenting,  and  not  in  the  results  it 
promises."  No  critic  has  ever  settled  anything. 
Pater  played  the  role  of  spectator  in  the  game  of 
life,  disillusioned  perhaps,  and  not  much  caring 
for  the  prizes  run  for  in  the  sweat  and  dust  of  the 
arena.  Neither  was  he  an  umpire,  but  suffered 
the  slightly  melancholy  happiness  of  the  disinter 
ested  looker-on.  It  is  a  part  which  tempera 
ment  decides.  Luckily  for  the  world,  there  are 
not  many  of  such  temperaments.  In  his  early 
essay  Diaphaneite  he  has  described  such  a  na 
ture,  which  "does  not  take  the  eye  by  breadth  of 
colour;  rather  is  it  that  fine  edge  of  light,  where 
the  elements  of  our  moral  nature  refine  them 
selves  to  the  burning  point."  Whether  in  his 
life  he  succeeded  in  maintaining  that  dangerous 
mood  of  ecstasy,  a  mood  that  we  only  associate 
with  mystics  and  poets;  whether  he  burned  al 
ways  with  this  "hard  gem-like  flame"  we  do  not 
know,  nor  need  it  concern  us;  but  we  do  know 
that  he  succeeded  in  infusing  a  moiety  of  the 
ecstasy  into  his  writings.  And  that  is  his  suc- 
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cess  in  art  as  in  life.  Doubtless  he  reached  his 
goal  as  other  great  artists  have  done  through  a 
series  of  disgusts.  That  is  one  way  to  perfec 
tion,  and  if  for  some  his  art  is  as  cold  as  a  star, 
for  others  every  page  is  sympathetic;  at  times.he 
gives  you  the  impression  of  a  hearty  human 
hand-clasp. 

The  truth  is  that  his  followers  or  would-be 
disciples  have  clouded  popular  comprehension; 
Pater  formed  no  school.     Himself  the  product 
of  many  complex  currents  of  thought  and  emo 
tion,  a  man  who  filed  his  form  to  a  tenuous  de 
gree,  there  was  never  in  him  a  compelling  crea 
tive  element,  the  simple,  great  idea  that  would 
be  bound  to  have  progeny.    His  originality  was 
the  result  of  accretions  and  subtle  rejections; 
the  tact  of  omission,  as  he  put  the  phrase.    All 
nuance,  he  has  also  a  tangible  charm,  which  is  not 
compounded  sweetness  and  light,  as  is  Cardinal 
Newman,  yet  is  extremely  winning.   Mr.  Greens- 
let  happily  calls  his  style  African,  as  opposed  to 
the  Asiatic  profusion  of  De  Quincey.    African, 
or  Alexandrian,  it  is  a  style  that  is  never  strongly 
affirmative.    It  sets  forth  his  Lydian  music  and 
felicitous  scepticism  in  the  precise  relief  they  de 
mand.    He  is  essentially  a  painter  of  pictures  ' 
and,  as  with  Flaubert,  the  image  and  the  idea  are 
always  fused.    He  would  have  said  that  a  change 
in  a  nation's  music  meant  a  change  in  a  nation's 
laws. 

But  he  was  not  all  languor  and  ecstasy  and 
music.    When  the  rumour  was  circulated  in  Ox- 
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ford  that  he  had  a  metaphysical  sin  on  his  soul 
it  was  because  he  flaunted  a  brilliant  apple- 
green  tie  and,  worse  still,  because  he  kept  on  his 
table  a  bowl  of  dried  rose-leaves.  A  hedonist 
indeed!  Yet  he  was  writing  at  the  time  such  an 
involved  sentence  on  style  as  this:  "Since  all 
progress  of  mind  consists  for  the  most  part  in 
differentiation,  in  the  resolution  of  an  obscure 
and  complex  object  into  its  component  aspects, 
it  is  surely  the  stupidest  of  losses  to  confuse 
things  that  right  reason  has  put  asunder,  to  lose 
the  sentence  of  achieved  distinctions,  the  dis 
tinction  between  poetry  and  prose,  for  instance; 
or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  between  the  laws  and 
characteristic  excellences  of  verse  and  prose  com 
position."  A  sentence  worthy  of  old  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  not  any  more  immoral  than  the 
apple-green  tie  or  the  dried  rose-leaves.  Pater 
often  made  arid  and  complicated  prose;  when  he 
dealt  with  abstract  ideas  he  could  write  like 
Herbert  Spencer.  He  needed  a  personality  to 
set  humming  in  him  the  warm  music  of  his  very 
human  sympathies.  How  much  simpler  is  his 
definition  of  style  in  the  essay  on  Pascal:  "The 
essence  of  all  good  style,  whatever  its  accidents 
may  be,  is  expressiveness."  And  expressiveness 
is  his  characteristic  charm. 

The  Imaginary  Portraits,  Marius  the  Epicu 
rean  —  not  the  best-composed  of  his  works,  for 
it  is  rather  a  sheaf  of  essays  than  a  closely  woven 
study;  Gaston  de  Latour,  and  the  loftily  con 
ceived  Plato  and  Platonism,  are  so  many  rich 
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gleanings  from  the  imagination  and  mental  ex 
perience  of  this  distinguished  thinker.  True,  his 
pose  was  largely  romantic,  but  the  classical  or 
the  romantic  we  have  ever  had  and  always  will 
have  with  us.  As  he  writes:  "The  romantic 
spirit  is  in  reality  an  ever  present,  an  enduring 
principle  in  the  artistic  temperament. "  Par 
ticularly  true  is  this  of  music  —  no  matter  in 
what  questionable  guise  it  comes  to  us,  whether 
as  debased  as  opera  or  as  the  spiritual  symphony, 
music  is  the  most  romantic  art  of  all,  and,  ac 
cording  to  Pater,  the  art  to  which  the  other  arts, 
aspire.  That  he  had  not  the  critical  tempera 
ment  of,  say,  Matthew  Arnold,  may  not  be  denied, 
though  both  men  studied  at  the  feet  of  Sainte- 
Beuve.  Contrary  to  popular  belief,  Pater  was 
the  less  impressionistic  critic  of  the  two,  and 
while  he  had  the  urbanity  he  did  not  possess  the 
superciliousness  nor  the  wit  of  Arnold,  nor  the 
ethical  bias;  his  personal  method  was  as  sound 
as  his  contemporary's.  As  Professor  Spingarn 
would  say,  the  province  of  the  critic  is  to  ask: 
"What  has  the  poet  tried  to  express,  and  how  has 
he  expressed  it?  "  Pater  always  asks  these  ques 
tions.  As  a  method  this  is  not  exactly  novel, 
as  some  believe,  but  it  is  wholly  effective.  The 
critical  rule  of  thumb  has  with  the  dealer  in  moral 
platitudes  forever  disappeared  from  the  scene. 

And  yet  —  !  After  we  had  reread  him  we 
came  across  the  exclamation  of  the  Princess  in 
Disraeli's  Coningsby:  "I  wish  that  life  were  a 
little  more  Dantesque."  And  we  recall  the  in- 

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cident  in  Alton  Locke  when  old  Sandy  Mackaye 
takes  Alton  to  a  London  alley  and  bids  him  make 
poetry  out  of  it:  "Say  how  ye  saw  the  mouth  o' 
hell,  and  the  twa  pillars  thereof  at  the  entry,  the 
pawnbroker's  shop  on  the  one  side  and  the  gin 
palace  at  the  other  —  two  monstrous  devils, 
eating  up  men,  women,  and  bairns,  body  and 
soul.  Look  at  the  jaws  of  the  monsters  how 
they  open  and  open  to  swallow  in  anither  victim 
and  anither.  Write  about  that! "  Not  even  the 
bait  thrown  out  by  Sandy,  that  classic  tragedy 
was  involved  in  the  issue  —  man  conquered  by 
circumstances  —  would  have  tempted  Pater  to 
handle  such  a  theme.  Therefore,  when  like  the 
Princess  we  feel  in  the  Dante  or  sublime  mood, 
it  is  not  Walter  Pater  we  seek,  but  Dante,  Bee 
thoven,  Goethe,  Michelangelo.  Pater,  however, 
stands  the  test  of  rereading,  because  he  wrote 
beautifully  of  beautiful  things. 


A  PRECURSOR  OF  POE. 

During  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  recent  critical 
powwow  over  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  why  was  the 
name  of  Thomas  Holley  Chivers  not  lugged  into 
the  conflict?  Bayard  Taylor  declared  that  "one 
of  the  finest  images  in  modern  poetry  is  in  his 
Apollo": 

"Like  cataracts  of  adamant,  uplifted  into  mountains, 
Making  oceans  metropolitan,  for  the  splendor  of  the 
dawn." 

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A  superb,  a  mouth-filling  couplet!  We  defy 
any  Western  bard  or  Carolina  lyrist  to  construct 
a  like  billowing  rhythm.  Who  was  Thomas 
Holley  Chivers?  He  was  born  in  Georgia,  1807, 
two  years  before  Poe,  and  he  died  in  1858.  The 
son  of  a  rich  planter  and  mill-owner,  he  received 
a  classical  education.  He  became  a  doctor,  but 
devoted  his  time  to  poetry  and  science.  He  knew 
Poe;  his  poetry  for  the  most  part  antedated  Poe's. 
The  unhappy  author  of  The  Raven  once  wrote  to 
Chivers:  "Please  lend  me  $50  for  three  months. 
I  am  so  poor  and  friendless  I  am  half  distracted." 
It  was  for  a  projected  magazine  —  always  the 
magazine  mirage !  —  that  Poe  wanted  the  money. 

Forgotten  after  his  death,  the  name  of  Chivers 
came  to  light  in  Bayard  Taylor's  clever  book  of 
parodies,  Diversions  of  the  Echo  Club,  a  book  as 
fresh  now  as  the  day  it  was  written.  In  the 
chapter  entitled  Night  the  Third  Chivers  and 
his  amazing  verse  are  discussed  to  the  accompani 
ment  of  laughter  by  the  various  mouthpieces  of 
Taylor.  Did  Poe  ever  write  anything  compa 
rable  to  these  lines?  —  we  mean  anything  so  de 
lightfully  lunatic: 

"Many  mellow  Cydonian  suckets, 

Sweet  apples,  anthosmial,  divine, 
From  the  ruby  rimmed  beryline  buckets, 

Star  gemmed,  lily  shaped,  hyaline; 
Like  the  sweet,  golden  goblet  found  growing 

On  the  wild  emerald  cucumber  tree, 
Rich,  brilliant,  like  chrysoprase  glowing, 

Was  my  beautiful  Rosalie  Lee." 

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Not  only  a  predecessor  of  Poe  but  of  Lewis 
Carroll's  Jabberwocky  and  Edward  Lear's  non 
sense  verse.  Taylor  remarks  of  drivers  that 
"Poe  finished  the  ruin  of  him  which  Shelley  be 
gan";  but  there  seems  to  be  another  side  of  the 
story,  and  in  justice  to  both  Poe  and  drivers 
it  has  been  adequately  told  by  the  late  writer 
Joel  Ben  ton  in  a  little  book  of  his  called  In  the 
Poe  Circle.  For  the  first  time  we  learn  some 
thing  of  drivers,  of  his  supernally  absurd  word- 
building,  and  of  his  relations  with  Poe.  After  a 
brief  inquiry  into  the  reason  of  Poe's  hold  on 
the  public  Ben  ton  says:  "You  cannot  harness 
humming-birds  as  common  carriers,"  and  then 
he  proceeds  to  tell  of  the  books  written  by 
drivers.  There  are  or  were  seven  or  eight  vol 
umes;  the  British  Museum  has  a  set  of  six.  Their 
titles  are  verbal  dreams.  Nacooche,  or  the 
Beautiful  Star,  The  Lost  Pleiad,  Eonchs  of 
Ruby  (what  are  Eonchs?),  Memoralia,  or  Phials 
of  Amber,  Full  of  the  Tears  of  Love,  Virginalia, 
or  Songs  of  My  Summer  Nights,  The  Sons  of 
Usna,  Atlanta,  or  the  True  Blessed  Island  of 
Love,  and  a  first  book  (1834)  Conrad  and  Eudora, 
or  the  Death  of  Alonzo;  a  Threnody.  All  tes 
tify  to  the  lush  and  silly  taste  of  the  times. 
What  is  surprising,  however,  is  to  find  Poe  ante 
dated  in  many  of  his  own  mannerisms  and  ex 
travagances.  For  example: 

"I  went  with  my  Lily  Adair  — 
With  my  lamblike  Lily  Adair  — 
With  my  saintlike  Lily  Adair  — 
With  my  beautiful,  dutiful  Lily  Adair." 

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Even  the  refrain  of  The  Bells  was  anticipated 
by  Chivers;  or  this: 

"In  the  Rosy  Bowers  of  Aiden 
With  her  ruby  lips  love  laden, 
Dwelt  the  mild,  the  modest  maiden 
Whom  Politan  called  Lenore." 

You  rub  your  eyes;  Lenore,  Politan!  Or  one 
of  the  closing  stanzas  from  the  same  poem,  The 
Vigil  of  Aiden: 

"And  the  lips  of  the  damned  Demon 
Like  the  syren  to  the  seaman, 
With  the  voice  of  his  dear  leman 
Answered,  'Never  —  nevermore!' 
And  the  old  time  towers  of  Aiden 
Echoed,  'Never  —  nevermore.'"    , 

Compared  with  Poe's  dignified  and  artistic 
poem  this  is  mere  buckram,  yet  it  preceded  Poe 
and  he  read  it,  was  affected  by  it,  at  least  his 
phono-motor  centres  recalled  it  when  he  com 
posed.  Swinburne  greatly  relished  Chivers,  and 
Benton  quotes  Bayard  Taylor's  meeting  with 
the  poet:  "Oh,  Chivers,  Chivers,"  said  Swin 
burne  in  his  peculiar  voice,  "if  you  know  Chivers, 
give  me  your  hand."  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man  heard  Swinburne  reel  off  yards  of  Chivers 's 
lines.  The  truth  is  Chivers  had  marked  rhyth 
mic  ability  and  an  ear  for  pompous,  pulpy, 
sonorous  rhetoric.  What  a  long-breathed  phrase 
is  this  from  Avalon: 

"For  thou  didst  tread  with  fire-ensandalled  feet, 

Star  crowned,  forgiven, 
The  burning  diapason  of  the  stars  so  sweet, 
To  God  in  Heaven!" 

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If  there  is  ever  a  museum  founded  in  which 
will  be  displayed  the  " awful  examples"  of  bad, 
nonsensical  poetry,  Chivers  will  be  king,  though 
we  might  easily  cite  lines  by  Shelley,  Poe, 
Browning,  Mrs.  Browning,  and  Swinburne  that 
make  for  nonsense,  though  often  resounding. 
Chivers  did  not  rest  quietly  after  reading  the 
Poe  poems.  He  openly  accused  him  of  pla 
giarism,  and  to  the  controversy  which  ensued 
Ben  ton  has  devoted  a  very  interesting  chapter. 
Chivers  pursued  Poe  in  several  magazines,  prov 
ing  that  his  own  Lost  Pleiad  was  published  in 
1842,  therefore  several  years  in  advance  of  The 
Raven.  As  may  be  seen  by  the  above  quota 
tion  the  resemblances  are  more  than  fortuitous. 
Poe,  like  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Handel,  and 
Wagner,  knew  how  to  appropriate  and  adapt. 
Chivers  asserted  that  he,  Chivers,  was  the  "  first 
poet  to  make  the  trochaic  rhythm  express  an 
elegiac  theme,  and  the  first  to  use  the  euphonic 
alliteration"  —  we  quote  Ben  ton  —  and  gives 
an  extract  of  his  own  to  prove  his  statement. 
It  is  magnificently  humorous,  though  seriously 
meant  by  the  poet: 

"  As  an  egg  when  broken  never  can  be  mended,  but  must 
ever 

Be  the  same  crushed  egg  forever,  so  shall  this  dark 
heart  of  mine, 

Which  though  broken  is  still  breaking,  and  shall  never 
more  cease  aching, 

For  the  sleep  which  has  no  waking  —  for  the  sleep 
which  now  is  thine." 

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I  prefer  The  Raven.  If  Richard  Strauss  is 
still  without  a  libretto  for  a  new  comic  opera  the 
above  contains  a  germ  for  his  genius  to  develop. 
The  picture  of  Chivers  which  Mr.  Benton  prints 
in  his  study  shows  us  a  dignified  man;  with 
suggestions  of  the  statesman  and  the  poet,  he 
wears  a  melancholy  expression.  He  was  noted 
for  his  domestic  virtues,  suffered  greatly  when  he 
lost  his  children;  and  he  must  have  daily  read 
quaint  dictionaries  by  the  dozen. 

MME.  DAUDET'S  SOUVENIRS 

After  thirty  years  of  married  life,  Julia,  the 
widow  of  Alphonse  Daudet,  could  write  that  she 
was  never  bored  an  hour;  she  suffered,  she 
worked,  and  she  worried,  but  not  once  did  she  sit 
down  and  say:  " Life  is  stupid."  How  far  from 
the  lethargy,  venom,  the  dulness  of  many  ar 
tistic  households  her  existence  with  her  beloved 
novelist  was  may  be  found  in  her  newly  published 
Souvenirs  Autour  d'un  Groupe  Litteraire.  This 
volume  of  fascinating  interest  for  the  admirers  of 
Daudet  also  brings  with  it  the  reminder  that 
time  in  its  flight  has  not  spared  the  vogue  of  that 
delightful  author.  Not  only  is  he  no  longer  the 
mode,  but  we  doubt  if  his  work  is  familiar  to  this 
generation,  with  the  exception  of  the  miserably 
garbled  Sapho,  which  in  its  dramatic  form  is  a 
libel  on  the  novel.  The  more  solid  and  less 
spiritual  Zola  endures  the  indifference  of  readers; 
Daudet,  impressionistic,  romantic,  sensitive, 
290 


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has  not  aged  gracefully.  Like  his  own  physical 
beauty,  his  books  were  for  the  most  part  doomed 
soon  to  disappear.  Written  without  much  effort, 
the  effervescence  of  a  man  of  the  south,  they  were 
eagerly  read  by  a  greedy  public  and  carelessly 
dropped.  The  reason  is  not  difficult  to  explain. 

Alphonse  Daudet  did  not  belong  to  the  giant 
race  of  fiction;  to  the  race  of  Balzac,  Flaubert, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  Tolstoy,  or  Turgenief .  His 
swift  prose,  butterfly  fancies,  and  delicate  though 
slightly  malicious  humour  were  seen  at  their  best 
in  Letters  From  My  Mill,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 
Numa  Roumestan.  When  he  began  to  reach  for 
the  laurels  of  the  realist  he  went  out  of  his 
ordered  domain.  Too  much  artist  to  fail,  his 
later  efforts  betray  the  struggle.  There  is  too  a 
note  of  rancour  in  them,  partially  the  result,  no 
doubt,  of  his  wasting  malady.  Sapho  contains 
much  good  workmanship.  It  may  endure,  yet 
we  wish  Daudet  had  written  something  else. 
Why  should  he  compete  with  Germinie  Lacer- 
teux,  or  Nana.  He  was  au  fond  the  poet,  and  as 
Zola  so  happily  said:  "  Daudet's  mind  gallops  in 
the  midst  of  the  real,  and  now  and  again  makes 
sudden  leaps  into  the  realm  of  fancy,  for  nature 
put  him  in  that  borderland  where  poetry  ends 
and  reality  begins." 

Madame  Daudet  is  too  modest  about  her  role 
in  the  life  of  the  fortunate  novelist.  She  refers 
touchingly  to  the  fact  that,  as  she  always  read  her 
husband's  manuscript  revisions  and  proofs,  their 
handwriting  was  often  intertwined.  In  reality 
291 


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she  was  the  high  wall  that  protected  the  frail  and 
capricious  Provencal  flower  from  the  cold  wind 
of  Parisian  life.  As  Julia  Allard  she  had  in  1865 
made  her  literary  debut  in  VArt  with  verse, 
signed  Marguerite  Tournay.  No  need  here  to 
refer  to  her  cultivated  prose.  She  does  not  al 
lude  to  her  work  in  these  recollections  of  such  men 
as  Flaubert,  Edmond  de  Goncourt,  Zola,  Gam- 
betta,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Turgenief,  Coppee, 
Theophile  Gautier,  Catulle  Mendes,  Sully-Prud- 
homme,  Verlaine,  Heredia,  Manet,  Whistler, 
Augusta  Holmes  the  Irish-French  composer, 
Judith  Gautier,  Victor  Hugo,  Princess  Mathilde, 
Paul  de  Saint- Victor,  Mallarme,  Juliette  Adam, 
Mistral,  "Gyp,"  Liszt,  Theodore  de  Banville, 
Henry  Greville,  and  the  Charpentier  family — 
people  that  made  history  in  their  time. 

She  once  heard  that  noctambulist  and  dis 
ordered  genius  Villiers  de  1'Isle  Adam  recite  The 
Raven  of  Poe.  Verlaine  she  found  outwardly 
ugly,  but  a  true  poet.  Her  chief  admiration,  after 
her  husband,  is  reserved  for  Edmond  de  Gon 
court.  While  we  are  glad  to  get  the  story,  we 
do  not  think  it  should  have  been  made  public 
property  —  that  letter  sent  by  the  elder  Gon 
court  to  Flaubert  —  especially  as  Madame 
Daudet  finds  fault  with  a  certain  writer  for  re 
vealing  personal  secrets.  The  letter  in  question, 
dated  June,  1870,  tells  Flaubert  of  a  mad  resolve 
on  the  part  of  Edmond  to  kill  his  insane  brother 
Jules.  The  sufferings  of  the  poor  fellow  har 
rowed  the  feelings  of  Edmond.  He  wrote  Flau- 
292 


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bert  he  had  a  pistol  ready  and  a  letter  to  the 
police,  but  his  courage  failed  him  when  Jules 
looked  at  him  with  his  soft  blue  eyes  full  of 
childish  astonishment  and  terror.  A  startling 
tale,  altogether;  perhaps  one  of  Goncourt's  best 
fictions. 

Madame  Daudet  saw  something  of  the  Hugo 
menage,  with  Julie  Drouet  at  its  head.  Her  de 
scription  of  the  aged  poet  and  his  elderly  charmer 
who  had  won  him  away  from  Madame  Hugo,  is 
the  most  vivid  in  the  volume.  She  reprints  a 
letter  from  George  Sand  written  shortly  before 
her  death.  She  knew  Drumont,  and  she  makes 
pictures  of  social  gatherings  in  which  Ambassador 
Beust  is  shown  playing  trivial  valses  of  his  own 
manufacture.  With  the  Zolas,  naturally,  the 
Daudets  were  intimate.  Madame  Daudet  re 
cords  that  Madame  Zola  appeared  happy.  She 
was  happy  during  the  early  right  of  the  romancer, 
when  they  both  were  half  starved.  Whether 
Madame  Zola  was  happy  in  the  last  years  of  the 
novelist's  career  we  cannot  say.  No  doubt  Al- 
phonse  Daudet  had  uphill  work,  but  he  never  had 
to  face  such  odds  as  did  Zola  (both  were  born  the 
same  year,  1840).  The  exterior  man  in  the  case 
of  Daudet  was  so  attractive,  his  gifts  so  sympa 
thetic,  that  it  would  have  been  a  surprise  if  he 
had  not  conquered.  His  finely  modelled  head 
with  the  black,  silky  hair  falling  over  his  eyes 
(unfortunately  myopic),  and  these  same  eyes  of 
beautiful  colour  and  shape;  his  beard  worn  in 
such  fashion  as  to  win  for  him  the  sobriquet 

293 


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"the  Arabian  Christ,"  his  sparkling conversa 
tion  and  piquant  temperament  —  all  these  pro 
claimed  his  southern,  oriental  blood.  (The  nam 
of  the  family  was  originally  David,  softened  t 
Daudet  in  Provencal.) 

He  had  a  petulant  temper  and  never  forgav 
or  forgot  the  slightest  neglect  or  injury.  There' 
a  feminine  character  in  his  amour  propre,  so  easil 
outraged.  We  cannot  recall  a  writer  whos 
books  so  bristle  with  personalities.  Daude 
spitted  his  enemies  —  and  friends  too  —  in  hi 
pages.  His  romans  a  clef  are  only  worth  readin 
nowadays  because  of  the  slanderous  gossip  the; 
contain.  As  art  they  are  nil.  Their  author  neve 
pardoned  the  Academy,  and  his  wife  relate 
an  unpleasant  social  encounter  she  had  with  a] 
old  academician  supposed  to  have  served  as  ; 
model  in  The  Immortal.  Her  tact  saved  th 
situation.  And  there  is  the  eternal  Turgenie 
quarrel.  She  revives  it,  as  Daudet  did  in  hi 
own  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Man.  After  Tur 
genief 's  death  a  book  of  reminiscences  appeare< 
in  which  the  Russian  speaks  almost  contemptu 
ously  of  the  French  circle  he  frequented  whei 
living  in  Paris.  With  the  Daudets  he  had  beei 
most  friendly,  and  the  letters  he  exchanged  wit! 
the  good-humoured  Flaubert  are  now  in  print 
He  helped  Zola,  Daudet,  and  Goncourt  to  pro 
cure  an  audience  in  Russia,  even  translating  thei 
articles  for  a  St.  Petersburg  magazine;  there 
fore  he  could  hardly  have  played  at  the  end  th 
traitor.  M.  Halperine-Kaminsky  has  dissipate< 
294 


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the  mystery  by  proving  that  the  Memoirs  con 
tained  interpolations  or  were  written  by  Sacher- 
Masoch,  a  Slav  writer  of  unsavoury  fame.  But 
'  the  Daudets  would  accept  no  explanations,  and 
it  is  sad  to  see  Mme.  Daudet  still  believing  the 
ancient  lie.  The  trouble  is  that  Alphonse  Dau 
det  was  excessively  sensitive  to  criticism  and 
Turgenief  did  write  once  that  he  found  much  of 
the  work  of  the  Parisian  naturalistic  novelists 
11  smeUed  of  the  lamp."  This  included  Flaubert, 
Zola,  Goncourt,  Daudet.  He  often  chided  Flau 
bert  for  his  frenzy  over  his  corrections.  It  was 
Turgenief  s  motto,  as  it  was  Whistler's,  that  in 
art  all  traces  of  the  mechanical  processes  should 
vanish;  his  own  effortless  and  wellnigh  perfect 
style  is  an  admirable  exemplar  of  this  belief. 
He  felt  the  strain  in  Daudet's  later  novels  —  the 
strain  after  qualities  he  did  not  possess.  The 
early  charm  had  almost  disappeared;  but  Dau 
det  would  not  tolerate  the  idea.  Hence  his 
bitterness  regarding  Turgenief  —  a  man  who 
towers  over  him  as  a  creator  and  an  artist.  And 
it  should  be  remembered  that  Alphonse  Daudet 
was  a  big  "seller"  when  his  friends  were  not. 
He  was  childishly  vain  of  his  successes. 

After  Flaubert's  death  the  Sunday  afternoon 
gatherings  of  poets,  painters,  novelists,  musi 
cians,  philosophers,  and  other  celebrities  at  his 
little  house  near  the  Pare  Monc,eau  ceased,  and 
Edmond  de  Goncourt's  grenier  at  Auteuil  be 
came  the  rallying-point  for  all  the  rising  talent  in 
Paris.  This  pretty  maison  d'artiste,  the  Villa 

295 


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Montmorenci,  may  be  seen  to-day.  It  has  be 
come  since  Goncourt's  death  in  1896  the  Acade 
mic  Goncourt,  though  it  must  be  admitted  no 
imposing  talent  has  as  yet  emerged  from  its 
portals.  Madame  Daudet  was  present  at  these 
meetings,  where  art  and  literature  were  discussed 
with  an  intensity  and  an  acuity  that  seems  al 
most  ludicrous  in  our  days  of  machine-made 
plays,  novels,  operas,  and  pictures.  Fancy  these 
men  of  the  Second  Empire — Flaubert,  Zola,  Gon 
court,  Daudet,  and  a  dozen  others  —  fighting 
over  such  obsolete  literary  ideals  as  artistic 
prose,  form,  atmosphere,  character,  and  environ 
ment.  You  rub  your  eyes  with  astonishment. 
What  an  object-lesson  is  the  group  of  which 
Madame  Daudet  writes  so  lucidly,  for  young 
fiction-mongers  who  typewrite  two  novels  in  a 
twelvemonth  and  then  boast  of  their  "art"  and 
their  many  editions. 

THE  DE  LENZ  BEETHOVEN 

The  resurrection  of  a  once-famous  and  long- 
forgotten  book  is  always  an  interesting  event, 
but  will  the  present  generation  of  readers  enjoy 
what  was  the  mode  over  half  a  century  ago? 
To  be  sure  a  classic  is  always  a  classic;  the  book 
we  allude  to  never  pretended  to  be  anything  more 
than  a  gossipy  chronicle  boasting  of  personal 
charm  about  music  and  musicians,  and  the  music 
of  Beethoven  especially.  Imagine  a  Pepys  of 
music,  a  Russian  Pepys,  saturated  with  French 
296 


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and  German  cultures,  himself  a  pianist  of  un 
usual  ability  and  the  pupil  of  Chopin,  Liszt, 
Tausig,  Henselt  —  not  to  mention  others  of 
lesser  celebrity  —  and  the  name  of  Wilhelm  de 
Lenz  may  be  familiar  to  some.  He  was  born  in 
1808,  at  St.  Petersburg;  he  died  1883.  He  was 
a  Russian  Councillor.  He  possessed  means.  He 
had  musical  talent;  and  he  was  simply  a  divine 
gossip.  No  such  intimate  book  dealing  with 
Liszt,  Chopin,  Tausig,  and  Henselt  was  ever 
written  like  The  Great  Piano  Virtuosi  of  our 
Time  (translated  by  Madeleine  R.  Baker).  No 
one  has,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Amy  Fay, 
given  us  such  easel  pictures  of  these  musicians 
as  men  —  Miss  Fay,  of  course,  was  not  a  Chopin 
pupil;  but  she  studied  under  the  three  other 
heroes  of  the  keyboard.  In  the  Biographical 
Dictionary  of  Music  and  Musicians,  edited  by 
Dr.  Theodore  Baker  and  Richard  Aldrich,  De 
Lenz's  birth  year  is  given  as  1804  and  his  "de" 
is  there  a  "von."  Need  it  be  added  that  there 
will  be  no  "conflict  of  authorities"  over  the  two 
dates;  De  Lenz  is  hardly  as  important  a  per 
sonage  in  the  world  of  music  as  Chopin;  besides 
in  Russia  they  do  not  fabricate  with  such  ease  as 
in  Warsaw  baptismal  certificates.  Chopin  has 
already  had  three  or  four.  More  will  follow  as 
each  new  biography  appears.  M.  Calvocoressi 
is  the  authority  for  the  1808  birth  date.  He 
prints  it  in  his  introduction  to  that  long-lost  vol 
ume  of  De  Lenz,  Beethoven:  et  ses  Trois  Styles 
(Brentano's). 

297 


BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

While  the  book  reads  as  fresh  as  yesterday,  De 
Lenz  is  not  a  profound  critic  of  music,  and  he 
too  often  writes  in  the  inflated  romantic  vein  of 
his  times.  Beethoven,  a  god  for  the  few,  was 
then  compared  with  Homer,  Shakespeare,  Dante, 
Goethe,  and  Victor  Hugo.  Liszt  has  written 
some  mouth-filling  phrases  about  him,  Wagner 
went  him  several  better  in  the  way  of  muddy 
metaphysics  and  cryptic  burrowings,  while  De 
Lenz  when  he  becomes  excited  could  distance 
either  of  them.  But  Bettina  Brentano,  the  mer 
curial  and  rhapsodic  friend  of  both  Beethoven 
and  Goethe,  leads  De  Lenz  in  the  chase.  Cal- 
vocoressi,  the  author  of  several  monographs  of 
composers,  has  edited  De  Lenz's  French  and  fur 
nished  a  brief  introduction.  Berlioz  praised 
The  Three  Styles  of  Beethoven,  as  Calvocoressi 
points  out;  even  if  he  had  failed  to  do  so  it 
wouldn't  much  matter,  for  De  Lenz  quotes  the 
French  composer's  opinion  with  a  delightful 
smack  of  the  lips.  Luckily  for  posterity  our 
musical  Pepys  was  not  a  modest  man.  A  very 
human,  however. 

The  particular  charm  of  the  Beethoven  [we 
prefer  to  call  it  thus,  not  forgetting,  however, 
that  De  Lenz  wrote  later  (1855-1860)  Beethoven: 
eine  Kunststudie]  is  its  discursiveness.  No  mat 
ter  how  deeply  the  author  may  delve  into  the 
technical  mysteries  of  a  sonata  or  symphony,  he 
soon  flies  away  on  the  wings  of  an  anecdote.  It. 
may  be  said  without  fear  of  contradiction  that 
this  book  did  yeoman's  service  in  its  day,  and 
298 


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why  it  dropped  out  of  sight  is  incomprehensible. 
In  1852  there  was  no  Grove,  no  Thayer.  De  Lenz 
drew  on  Schindler  and  other  friends  of  Beethoven 
and  he  had  this  advantage  over  critics  who  fol 
lowed  him  —  he  spoke  to  the  men  who  had  been 
Beethoven's  intimates,  and  as  early  as  1827.  He 
played  the  Beethoven  sonatas  when  they  were 
caviare  to  the  musical  world,  and  once  aston 
ished  Liszt  with  the  performance  of  Weber's 
A-flat  Sonata,  a  work  which  no  one  in  Paris  had 
ever  heard.  We  prefer  De  Lenz's  analysis  of 
the  pianoforte  sonatas  to  those  of  Elterleins.  He 
is  painstaking  and  he  follows  Fetis  in  the  classi 
fication  of  the  sonatas;  this  same  rubric  of  three 
styles  has  its  merits.  It  is  convenient,  a  species 
of  critical  milestones. 

But  when  De  Lenz  reaches  the  last  five  sonatas 
he  flounders;  half  praises,  goes  into  ecstasies  over 
the  first  movement  of  the  noble  C-minor  sonata, 
opus  in,  yet  balks  at  the  Arietta  and  variations. 
To  him  it  is  the  tonal  weaving  of  a  man  near  the 
edges  of  an  abyss.  Nor  did  he  note,  though  an 
old  pupil  of  Chopin  (1842  he  studied  with  him 
at  Paris),  the  curious  similarity  of  the  first  few 
bars  of  the  Chopin  B-flat  minor  sonata  and  those 
of  the  Beethoven  C  minor.  Both  are  bold  and 
tragic.  The  intervals  are  suggestively  alike  in 
Stimmung,  though  not  precisely  so.  But  whereas 
Beethoven  built  of  his  preluding  bars  a  massive 
entrance  to  his  cathedral  of  glorious  sounds, 
Chopin  jumped  from  his  fiery  porch  into  a  som 
bre  dramatic  narrative.  We  need  hardly  be  sur- 
299 


BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

prised  at  the  inability  of  De  Lenz  to  appreciate 
the  grandeurs  of  the  last  five  Beethoven  sonatas. 
A  greater  than  he,  the  greatest  composer  —  and 
we  may  add  music  critic  —  of  France,  Hector 
Berlioz,  confessed  his  mental  paralysis  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Tristan  and  Isolde.  The  introduction 
was  for  him  always  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx. 
Neither  its  emotional  curve  nor  its  extraordi 
nary  eloquence  and  beauty  of  colouring  made  an 
appeal  to  Berlioz.  Was  he  sincere  in  this?  Yet, 
Beethoven  student  as  he  was,  he  might  have 
solved  the  enigma  by  analysing  the  introduction 
to  the  Pathetic  Sonata  of  Beethoven.  The  germ 
of  the  Tristan  harmonic  progressions  and  the 
plangent  eloquence  are  there  compressed  into  a 
few  bars.  One  might  apostrophise  Beethoven  as 
did  De  Quincey  when  he  uttered  those  matchless 
words  at  the  conclusion  of  his  study  of  the  knock 
ing  at  the  door  theme  in  Macbeth. 

But  over  De  Lenz  there  is  no  need  to  become 
serious.  His  sketch  of  Beethoven's  life  is  stuffed 
with  errors  as  well  as  the  facts  of  the  day. 
Among  other  things  he  remarks  that  the  com 
poser  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  a 
cabaret  at  Graben,  outside  of  Vienna  (page  205) ; 
and  asks  with  comic  intensity  how  could  the 
creator  of  that  immortal  masterpiece  the  C- 
sharp  sonata  (Moonlight,  so  called)  dine  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon?  Scratch  a  Russian  and 
you  come  upon  a  Parisian.  But  what  esprit, 
what  sheer  joy  in  the  telling  of  stories  are  to  be 
found  in  this  book.  The  anecdotes  of  pianists 
300 


BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

are  many;  some  of  them  he  transferred  to  his 
later  book  on  Liszt,  Chopin,  and  Tausig.  Who 
but  De  Lenz  could  have  discovered  that  Leopold 
de  Meyer  was  a  "  Master  of  a  Pennsylvania  Free 
mason's  lodge"?  The  lively  writer  calls  Bach 
"that  Sorbonne  hi  harmony";  and  of  Zelter  he 
said  that  he  was  the  "Fetis  of  his  time,"  not  a 
superficial  comparison.  He  literally  goes  for 
Mozart's  biographer,  Oulibischeff,  for  attacking 
Beethoven  and  characteristically  concludes  that 
as  a  critic  Oulibischeff  might  be  described  in  the 
words  of  the  old  vaudeville  ditty  "  J'ai  ete  marie, 
il  est  vrai,  mais  si  peu,  si  peu!"  Evidently  De 
Lenz  as  an  amateur  critic  of  music  realised  the 
force  of  the  Arabian  proverb :  "  One  who  has  been 
stung  by  a  snake  shivers  at  the  sight  of  a  string." 

Beethoven,  too,  was  among  the  supermen.  He 
is  reported  as  exclaiming  —  and  we  hear  the 
prophetic  rumble  of  Zarathustra's  voice  —  "A 
superior  man  should  never  be  confounded  with  a 
bourgeois."  This  speech,  no  doubt  authentic, 
the  composer  matched  with  his  brotherly  report 
to  Johann  van  Beethoven  as  to  the  possession  of 
brains. 

One  of  the  interesting  anecdotes  concerns 
WTehrstaedt.  Who  was  Wehrstaedt?  He  was  a 
professor  of  the  pianoforte  residing  at  Geneva 
about  1827.  He  only  knew  the  first  three  studies 
of  Cramer  (the  Venerable  Bede  of  the  Piano 
forte,  as  De  Lenz  happily  styles  him),  the  A-flat 
sonata  of  Weber  (Rosen thal's  warhorse  to-day) 
and  the  sonata  opus  26,  A-flat,  by  Beethoven. 

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This  admirable  musical  maniac  spent  his  long  life 
with  musical  baggage  so  slender  in  size.  He  had 
never  visited  Chamounix,  although  his  sojourn 
in  Geneva  was  protracted,  nor  would  he  pretend 
to  understand  how  any  one  could  love  Mont 
Blanc  while  loving  the  music  of  Weber.  He  al 
ways  kept  his  hat  on  when  teaching  or  playing. 
In  1828  De  Lenz  met  him,  played  for  him,  select 
ing  the  A-flat  sonata  of  Beethoven.  "Why  not 
a  galop  by  Herz?"  interrupted  the  sardonic 
Wehrstaedt.  "Because  I  love  it,"  responded 
the  brave  young  Russian;  who  writes  that  he 
had  had  many  good  masters  and  comprehended 
no  more  the  meaning  of  this  sonata  than  mice 
do  of  the  architecture  in  the  grange  through 
which  they  scurry.  Wehrstaedt  pushed  him 
from  the  keyboard  and  played  the  sonata  as 
no  one  else  could  play  it,  save  Franz  Liszt  (then 
seventeen  years  of  age).  Over  a  certain  trill  on 
the  first  page  Wehrstaedt  declared  that  he  had 
spent  twenty  years.  Nowadays  your  venture 
some  mechanical  piano-player  can  play  this 
particular  trill  in  octaves.  Such  pyramidal 
labours  for  such  trifles,  you  will  exclaim.  But 
Wehrstaedt  was  secretly  happy.  Every  day  he 
did  the  same  thing,  watched  as  the  years  rolled 
by  his  leaps  and  bounds  toward  the  promised 
land  of  perfection. 


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IDEAS  AND   IMAGES 

It  is  a  holy  and  wholesale  custom  with  cer 
tain  French  authors  to  collect  and  publish  an 
nually  in  book  form  their  fugitive  essays.  As  a 
rule,  the  material,  notwithstanding  its  heteroge 
neous  nature,  is  worthy  of  a  second  perusal.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  the  essay  as  a 
literary  exercise,  almost  as  extinct  as  the  dodo 
in  America,  is  still  vigorously  cultivated  in 
France.  Anatole  France,  Maurice  Barres,  Le- 
maitre,  Faguet,  De  Gourmont,  and  many  other 
masters  of  the  feuilleton  practise  this  gentle  art 
of  reprinting,  and  there  is  often  as  much  variety 
of  subject  in  one  of  their  books  as  may  be  found, 
for  example,  in  Plays,  Acting,  and  Music  by 
Arthur  Symons.  In  the  case  of  so  inveterate  an 
essayist  as  Remy  de  Gourmont  his  readers  are 
always  assured  of  a  feast  of  good  things.  De 
Gourmont  is  luckily  a  master  critic  who  has 
not  yet  " arrived'7  —  in  the  sense  of  Bourget  or 
France  or  Lemaitre.  An  aristocratic  radical,  a 
lover  of  paradox,  a  profound  scholar,  a  Latinist 
of  the  first  rank,  his  supple,  smiling  prose  is  a 
mask  that  conceals  much  wisdom,  much  irony, 
many  disillusionments.  For  the  man  in  the 
street  he  is  caviar.  He  sits  in  an  ivory  tower, 
but  on  the  ground  floor,  from  which  he  may 
saunter  and  rub  elbows  with  life.  He  has  been 
variously  denounced  as  a  subtle  sophist,  a  cor 
rupt  cynic,  a  hater  of  his  kind,  and  a  philosopher 

3°3 


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without  a  philosophy.  He  may  possess  a  little 
of  all  these  terrific  attributes,  but  he  is  also 
something  else.  He  is  very  human,  very  gay, 
very  tolerant,  very  charming,  and  very  erudite. 
He  is  more  sincere  than  Anatole  France  —  which 
still  leaves  him  a  fair  margin  of  irony  —  and  he 
is  infinitely  less  egotistical  than  Barres.  He 
deals  with  actualities  as  well  as  parchment  learn 
ing,  and  if  his  tales  are  salty  in  their  Gallicism 
we  can  only  excuse  him  with  the  remark  that 
they  order  such  humour  better  in  France  than 
in  England  or  America.  A  literary  critic  of  the 
first  standing,  De  Gourmont  is  hated  and  feared 
by  the  hypocrites,  puritans,  and  pharisees  who 
have  during  the  last  few  years  made  their  voices 
heard  and  their  prejudices  felt  in  Paris.  He 
never  spares  them  —  please  remember  that  Tar- 
tujffe  was  a  Frenchman  —  though  they  sit  in  the 
seats  of  the  mighty,  whether  professors,  politi 
cians,  or  editors. 

His  Promenades  Litteraires  is  the  third  vol 
ume  of  the  series  bearing  that  characteristically 
Stendhalian  title.  De  Gourmont  promenades 
among  a  lot  of  interesting  subjects,  some  choses 
vues,  others  the  record  of  his  browsings  in  eigh 
teenth  and  seventeenth  century  authors.  He  re 
cites  some  of  the  important  facts  in  the  critical 
career  of  the  late  Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  and  no 
essay  in  this  volume  so  reveals  the  catholicity  of 
its  author,  for  between  the  saturnine  and  ill- 
tempered  Brunetiere  and  the  urbane  author  of 
Le  Latin  Mystique  there  was  little  beyond  their 


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love  of  the  classics  to  make  them  fraternal.  Tem 
peraments,  and  consequently  points  of  view, 
were  totally  at  variance.  But  Gourmont  does  not 
hesitate  to  lay  a  laurel  of  praise  upon  the  tomb 
..of  the  dead  critic.  He  begins  by  asking  the 
(wherefore  of  the  conventional  distinction  be 
tween  the  creator  and  the  critic.  Why  the  sev 
eral  hierarchies?  He  does  not  take  refuge  in 
that  very  banal  definition  —  also  hybrid  — 
creative  criticism.  As  if  sound  criticism  could 
be  aught  but  creative.  He  demands  to  know 
why  Taine  should  be  called  a  critic  and  Octave 
Feuillet  a  creator.  If  a  history  of  literature  is 
written  the  author  must  construct  as  well  as 
criticise.  Both  novelist  and  critic  are  creators  of 
values ;  the  former  in  the  category  of  sensibility, 
the  latter  in  the  order  of  intelligence.  Why,  for 
example,  should  we  consider  Brunetiere  in 
ferior  to  Bourget?  Where  are  the  majority  of 
the  novelists  of  yesteryear?  The  contempo 
raries  of  Sainte-Beuve,  who  created  fiction,  con 
stituted  a  unique  group.  Balzac,  Stendhal, 
Flaubert,  De  Goncourt  presumably  will  live; 
but  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  any  single  man  of 
the  lot  outliving  the  reputation  of  Sainte-Beuve. 
Then  Gourmont  plunges  from  the  general 
into  the  particular.  He  shows  us  Brunetiere  ab 
sorbed  in  the  Darwinian  doctrines  which  about 
1890  began  to  enter  into  the  general  circulation 
of  French  literature.  Previous  to  that  Brune 
tiere  had  passed  for  a  revolutionary;  he  who 
later  became  the  leader  of  the  reactionaries.  His 

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BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

scheme  was  to  fabricate  a  vast  critical  edifice 
on  evolutionary  lines.  Literary  history  was  no 
longer  to  be  a  series  of  portraits  after  the  manner 
of  Sainte-Beuve,  but  a  co-ordinated  work  in 
which  each  epoch  would  in  Taine  fashion  (or 
Darwinian)  produce  its  various  genres  influenced 
by  the  milieu;  and  the  evolution  of  these  genres 
would  be  traced  with  an  iron  pen.  Science  was  a 
word  seldom  absent  from  his  pages  in  those  days. 
A  change  supervened.  Brunetiere  became  re 
ligious.  Hence  his  famous  phrase,  "The  bank 
ruptcy  of  science."  A  bankruptcy  of  meta 
physics,  adds  Gourmont.  Nevertheless  the 
phrase  stuck.  Brunetiere  made  capital  out  of  it. 
He  fell  to  hating  his  own  times,  like  all  idealists 
and  hyperaesthetic  persons,  took  refuge  in  the 
literature  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  with  ad 
mirable  results.  But  his  hatred  of  life  revenged 
itself  in  attacking  living  men,  whose  shoe-strings 
he  was  not  worthy  of  unlatching.  Nor  did  he 
spare  the  dead.  That  over-praised  study  of  Bal 
zac  is  full  of  grudging  spleen  and  inept  criticism, 
while  his  abuse  of  Baudelaire  caused  many  to  re 
mark  upon  his  lack  of  critical  urbanity. 

Brunetiere's  method  was  the  historic.  He 
was  exact  to  pedantry.  A  rationalist,  he  for 
got,  as  Gourmont  finely  puts  it,  that  the  domain 
of  reason  is  very  limited  and  that  logic,  according 
to  Ribot,  is  nearly  always  the  logic  of  sentiments. 
His  complete  work  may  be  considered  as  a  valu 
able  repertory  of  ideas  and  literary  judgments; 
but  cold,  but  dry.  The  " ferment  of  idealism" 
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is  missing,  the  dislike  of  originality,  the  worship 
of  the  accepted,  bulk  too  large.  He  was  a  learned 
student  and  a  small  man. 

Mr.  Brownell  has  written  regarding  the  old 
crux  of  criticism  and  creation  that  "what  criti 
cism  lacks  and  what  will  always  be  a  limitation  to 
its  interest  and  its  power  is  the  element  of  beauty, 
which  it  of  necessity  largely  foregoes  in  its  concen 
tration  upon  truth,"  but  "it  is  only  in  criticism 
that  the  thought  of  an  era  becomes  articulate, 
crystallised,  coherently  communicated."  We  are 
back  at  the  contention  of  Gourmont  that  in 
essentials  criticism  and  creation  are  alike.  Both 
are  a  criticism  of  life.  When  you  have  need  of 
metaphysics,  asserts  the  Parisian  writer,  you 
have  always  need  of  religion.  Metaphysic  is  the 
first  rung  of  the  mystic  ladder  —  a  statement 
seemingly  calculated  to  have  given  William  James 
great  pleasure. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  1889  Remy  de  Gour 
mont  paid  a  visit  to  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior. 
He  held  in  his  hand  the  manuscript  of  a  story 
named  Stratagems,  and  as  he  wished  to  dedicate 
it  to  Joris  Karl  Huysmans  he  went  to  the  office 
of  that  writer  armed  with  a  letter  of  introduction. 
Huysmans  was  then  assistant  chief  in  the  Depart 
ment  of  Surety  and  received  the  young  man  with 
amiability.  After  they  discovered  that  they  both 
knew  and  admired  ViUiers  de  1'Isle  Adam  the 
ice  was  broken.  The  elder  man  accepted  the 
dedication,  and  when  five  o'clock  came  he  seized 
his  hat  and  with  "  the  joy  of  a  dog  that  is  loosed 

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from  his  chain  "  he  began  to  walk  and  talk.  Gour- 
mont  tells  us  that  in  his  detested  office  he  wrote 
nearly  all  his  books.  La-Bas  was  represented 
there  by  its  original  manuscript,  written  in  clear 
script  with  few  erasures.  Huysmans  wrote 
slowly,  deliberately,  and  little  at  a  time,  but 
like  Zola  it  was  the  daily  drop  of  water  that 
wore  away  the  stone,  and  like  Anthony  Trollope 
he  could  resume  his  page  after  an  interruption 
with  perfect  tranquillity.  Gourmont,  who  is 
qualified  to  speak,  declares  that  Huysmans  was 
not  well  grounded  in  his  humanities.  The  page, 
so  fascinating  for  the  lover  of  original  style,  in 
A  Rebours,  devoted  to  the  Latin  poets  of  the  de 
cadence,  was  condensed  after  enormous  travail 
ing  from  Ebert's  tomes  on  the  subject  (Histoire 
generate  de  la  litterature  en  Occident).  The 
French  writer  boiled  down  to  a  clear  essence  the 
facts  he  needed  and  then  verbally  reorchestrated 
them.  He  was  astonished  at  the  genuine  classic 
erudition  of  Gourmont  and  wrote  an  engaging 
preface  to  his  Le  Latin  Mystique.  We  quite 
agree  with  Gourmont  that  A  Rebours  has  liter 
ary  antiseptic  in  it  to  preserve  it  from  decay. 
The  later  religious  studies  will  endure,  though 
hardly  on  the  book-shelves  of  the  profane  world. 
A  Rebours  is  a  history  of  an  aesthetic  period,  and 
as  such,  apart  from  the  magnificence  of  its  exe 
cution,  will  be  saved  as  vital  literature. 

Of  interest  is  the  gossip  about  the  habits  of 
Huysmans.  He  arrived  after  his  second  break 
fast  at  his  office  in  the  neighbourhood  of  eleven 


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o'clock.  He  smoked  cigarettes,  stared  at  his 
pet  posters,  read,  wrote,  and  incidentally  at 
tended  to  his  duties.  The  French  Government 
is  liberal  in  those  matters,  despite  the  sordid 
pictures  of  clerical  life  sketched  by  De  Maupas 
sant.  Nor  has  Huysmans  spared  the  rod.  He 
was  his  own  M.  Folantin,  always  grumbling  at 
the  dulness  of  his  life,  at  the  wretched  quality  of 
restaurant  food.  With  Gourmont  he  went  every 
afternoon  to  sip  Holland  bitters  at  the  Cafe 
Caron,  which  he  has  celebrated  in  his  vivid  prose 
etching  Habitues  de  Cafe.  There  a  singular 
atmosphere  reigned.  Old  customers  would  pro 
test  if  their  favourite  corners  were  annexed  by 
newcomers;  dominoes  were  not  tolerated  on  ac 
count  of  the  noise  they  made  on  marble-topped 
tables;  loud  conversation  was  prohibited;  pipes, 
too  —  altogether  a  cafe  de  luxe.  The  cooking 
and  wines  were  excellent  and  not  dear.  Several 
editors,  poets,  and  politicians  were  steady  at 
tendants.  After  the  place  went  to  smash  because 
of  its  exclusiveness  Huysmans  selected  the  Cafe 
de  Flore  as  its  successor.  Again  over  his  bitters, 
himself  embittered  by  temperament,  he  exposed 
his  views  on  art  and  literature  to  his  young 
friend.  To  call  them  extreme  is  putting  the  case 
mildly.  He  was  sardonic,  ironic,  splenetic,  rag 
ing.  He  never  spoke  well  of  any  one  (when  his 
back  was  turned  Gourmont  also  came  in  for  his 
rating).  Huysmans  attacked  religion,  society, 
art.  His  speech  was  rank  in  its  frankness.  He 
took  a  delight  in  the  abuse  of  shocking  vocables. 

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His  Flemish  nature  detested  polite  deceptions. 
His  books,  relates  our  author,  are  chaste  in  com 
parison  with  his  conversations,  which  is  saving 
much.  He  smashed  the  reputations  of  Bourget 
and  De  Maupassant,  both  former  comrades,  for 
"arriving"  ahead  of  him.  He  never  had  any 
doubt  as  to  his  own  artistic  superiority.  In  a 
word,  a  "knocker"  of  the  type  —  if  Huysmans 
could  ever  be  classified  —  described  by  Daudet 
in  Jack. 

Now  for  the  other  side  of  this  rather  discour 
aging  picture.  A  tender-hearted  chap,  always 
doing  favours,  even  to  the  men  he  abused,  going 
out  of  his  way  —  and  he  loathed  all  physical 
effort  —  to  promote  the  cause  of  some  stranger 
whose  work  had  appealed  to  him.  He  was  very 
charitable  and  always  hard  up  because  of  this 
generosity.  The  women  of  course  plundered  his 
sympathies,  and  he  wasted  time  over  many  who 
were  devoid  of  talent.  However,  he  put  them 
in  his  books,  and  with  what  malice,  what  verve. 

It  will  doubtless  relieve  many  sensitive  souls 
to  know  that  the  episode  of  the  Black  Mass,  so 
horrible  for  either  sick  or  healthy  nerves,  in  La- 
Bas  is  pure  imagination.  There  never  was  any 
such  occurrence  in  the  life  of  Huysmans  —  for  a 
good  reason.  If  Paris  had.  held  so  absurd  and 
vile  a  ceremony  he  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
ferret  it  out.  He  was  curious  about  unhealthy 
things.  He  was  a  dyspeptic  with  a  thirst  for  the 
infinite.  A  certain  Mme.  de  C.  introduced  him 
to  the  Abbe  Mugnier,  who  converted  him.  Great 

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was  Gourmont's  surprise  to  hear  of  this  conver 
sion.  He  had  always  known  that  a  religious  fond 
existed  in  Huysmans,  but  his  constant  mockeries 
and  blasphemies  had  deceived  him.  Astonished 
too  he  was  when  he  found  out  that  Huysmans 
was  deeply  interested  in  black  magic,  spiritualism, 
table-tipping.  Indeed,  De  Gourmont  doesn't 
hesitate  to  say  that  his  friend  entered  the  church 
through  the  rather  dubious  gate  of  spiritualism. 
All  roads  lead  to  Rome. 

Besides  these  souvenirs  of  Huysmans  and 
Brunetiere  (who  died  drinking  a  glass  of  cham 
pagne)  this  book  of  Remy  de  Gourmont  is  full  of 
suggestive  studies  written  in  a  captivating  style. 

THE   ETERNAL  PHILANDERER 

In  France  contemporary  literary  piety  is  de 
voted  to  the  celebration  of  a  marking  date,  1811, 
the  year  of  the  appearance  of  Chateaubriand's 
once  famous  Journey  from  Paris  to  Jerusalem 
(Itineraire  de  Paris  a  Jerusalem),  the  pattern  of 
all  the  picturesque  travels  of  the  last  century. 
When  Goethe  said  that  Hugo  and  the  Romanti 
cists  came  from  Chateaubriand  he  could  have 
added  that  Chateaubriand  himself  was  a  joint 
product  of  Rousseau  and  Ossian,  and  a  veritable 
prose  Byron.  We  remember  seeing  a  picture  of 
the  Vicomte  Francois  Rene  de  Chateaubriand 
(1768-1848),  his  slim  figure  wrapped  in  a  melo 
dramatic  cloak,  his  hyperion  curls  ruffled  by  the 
wind  that  swept  from  the  sea  across  the  bleak 


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promontory  where  he  posed  in  the  face  of  an 
approaching  tempest.  The  book  of  poems  in 
separable  from  such  a  composition  was  at  his 
feet.  Ossianic  was  the  conception,  and  you 
could  sympathise  with  the  romantic  ladies  of  the 
first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  who  read 
Rene,  read  Atala,  read  The  Genius  of  Christian 
ity,  and  worshipped  their  creator. 

He  was  a  genuine  force  in  French  literature, 
indeed,  in  the  literature  of  the  world.  As  senti 
mentalist  and  sensualist  he  ranks  after  Rousseau, 
and  he  much  resembles  Rousseau  in  his  constant 
intermingling  of  sensuality  and  religion.  He  in 
vented  a  new  form  of  morbid  sensibility  that  is 
in  the  very  bones  of  French  letters  to-day  — 
Pierre  Loti  is  its  latest  exponent  —  and  consider, 
too,  that  he  wrote  Atala  in  1801  and  Rene  in  1802, 
and  thus  set  the  pace  for  the  fiction  of  the  cen 
tury.  In  the  region  of  sensibility  it  was  not 
difficult  for  such  an  accomplished  virtuoso  to 
fiddle  across  the  semitone  that  barely  divides 
the  sentimental  from  the  sensuous.  Always  he 
sounded  with  precision  the  sultry  enharmonics  of 
the  senses;  and  the  sounds,  set  in  highly  coloured 
and  magnificent  prose,  ravished  the  ears  of  the 
blue-stockings  as  well  as  damsels  with  nodding 
curls.  Chateaubriand  was  one  more  reincar 
nation  of  the  eternal  philanderer  in  life  and  liter 
ature  alike. 

Andre  Beaunier  has  just  published  a  study  of 
the  loves  of  the  great  writer.     He  calls  his  book 
Trois  Amies  de  Chateaubriand,  and  tells  again 
312 


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the  rather  dolorous  though  fascinating  stories 
of  Pauline  de  Beaumont,  Juliette  Recamier, 
and  Hortense  Allart.  These  three  distinguished 
women  exerted  a  real  influence  upon  Chateau 
briand,  a  man  who  in  love  was  infidelity  itself. 
He  early  discovered,  as  other  historical  person 
ages  before  him  —  and  since  —  that  to  succeed 
one  must  take  an  attitude  in  life,  especially  must 
one  maintain  this  attitude  toward  one's  self.  Be 
always  a  hero  before  your  looking-glass,  said,  in 
effect,  Victor  Hugo,  Lamartine,  and  Chateau 
briand.  The  designer  of  the  portrait  we  once 
saw  had  caught  the  prosateur  across  the  vesti 
bule  of  his  inmost  self.  He  was  a  poseur,  but  he 
was  also  a  genius,  and  his  career  was  adventurous. 
He  secretly  detested  Napoleon,  being  a  nobleman 
born  and  a  legitimist,  though  the  master  of 
France  sent  him  to  Rome  as  secretary  to  the 
embassy,  and  later  as  an  ambassador  to  the 
Valais.  But  he  was  equally  dissatisfied  under 
Louis  XVIII  and  Charles  X,  though  one  mon 
arch  made  him  ambassador  to  England,  the 
other  to  Rome.  In  fact,  lu's  dissatisfaction  was 
never-ending. 

The  lion  in  the  pathway  of  Chateaubriand  was 
ennui,  a  monstrous  boredom  with  men,  women, 
and  things,  particularly  women.  His  egotism 
grazed  the  fabulous;  so  massive,  so  self-centred, 
so  firmly  enclosed  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  was 
his  self-love  that  he  never  even  deigned  to  show 
it,  after  the  fashion  of  smaller  men.  There  it 
was,  in  repose,  yet  disdainful,  revolving  at  ter- 


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rific  speed,  yet  not  showing  its  velocity.  Kinetic 
stability,  we  might  term  such  a  passion.  What  a 
study  for  George  Meredith  would  have  been  this 
temperament,  instead  of  that  faddle  Sir  Wik 
loughby  Patterne.  Time,  with  its  sly,  ironic 
sense,  has  seen  to  it  that  this  overwhelming,  this 
superb  paladin,  this  prince  of  the  vocabulary,  is 
now  chiefly  remembered  by  his  fellow-country 
men,  and  all  other  cultivated  nations,  as  the 
name  of  an  appetisingly  prepared  beef-steak 
while  Recamier  is  better  known  as  the  woman 
who  wore  so  becomingly  an  Empire  gown. 

M.  Beaunier  first  asks  if  a  work  of  literary  art 
is  sufficient  in  itself,  and  answers  in  the  negative. 
He  might  as  well  have  spared  himself  the  pains 
of  putting  the  question.  He  sorrowfully  con 
fesses  that  few  books  are  written  nowadays  with 
out  some  " useful"  purpose,  usually  sociological. 
Sociology  is  a  blight  on  literature;  it  has  given 
birth  to  innumerable  libraries  of  sordid  grey 
pamphlets,  tracts  that  masquerade  as  books, 
dismal  statistics,  and  to  fiction  stupid,  hysterical, 
prophetic,  and  an  amassing  of  inutile  "facts" 
inartistically  presented.  Say  "  art "  to  any  of  the 
young  writers  of  our  times  —  with  a  few  hon 
ourable  exceptions,  and  these  exceptions  are 
pronounced  immoral  —  and  a  volley  of  con 
temptuous  adjectives  is  launched  at  your  head. 
Art  is  for  verbal  voluptuaries.  Art  is  for  hedo 
nists,  sinister  word;  art  is  for  slaves  of  their 
senses,  not  for  free,  self-inflated,  socialistic  men 
of  commanding  intellect.  M.  Beaunier  concludes 


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that  Chateaubriand,  an  artist  in  prose  with  few 
equals  in  French  literature,  or  any  literature  for 
that  matter,  would  be  an  anomaly  if  he  were  alive 
and  writing  at  the  present  time. 

However,  he  doesn't  devote  many  pages  to 
aesthetic  polemic.  He  is  chiefly  interested  in  the 
love  affairs  of  the  celebrated  writer  who  had  con 
ceived  his  life  as  a  work  of  art  and  could  say  "one 
must  present  to  the  world  only  the  beautiful." 
But  in  working  out  the  practical  equation  of 
such  a  theory,  a  man  so  finely  organised  and  self- 
conscious  as  Chateaubriand  may  fall  either  into 
the  pit  of  selfish  satisfaction,  an  amateur  of  the 
emotions,  or  into  the  ecstatic  gloom  of  the  mystic. 
In  both  cases  a  woman's  heart  will  suffer,  and 
women's  hearts  did  rebound  from  the  stony,  self 
ish  cuirass  of  Chateaubriand.  He  loved  Pauline 
de  Beaumont,  but  not  as  she  loved  him.  A  brill 
iant  member  of  a  brilliant  circle,  most  of  whom 
went  under  the  knife  of  the  guillotine,  Pauline 
narrowly  escaped  a  similar  fate.  In  Rome  she 
spent  happy  days,  though  she  was  attainted  with 
consumption.  The  correspondence  is  interest 
ing.  Joubert,  a  mutual  friend,  has  said  memo 
rable  things  of  this  romance.  He  saw  clearly 
that  Chateaubriand  had  allowed  himself  to  be 
loved,  that  he  played  alternately  hot  and  cold, 
and,  experienced  grande  dame  as  was  Mme. 
de  Beaumont,  she  was  the  live  mouse  in  the 
clutches  of  this  accomplished  cat.  He  became 
entangled,  nevertheless,  in  other  affairs,  the  most 
notorious  of  which  was  his  friendship  for  Mme. 

3*5 


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de  Castellane.  The  police  tracked  them,  we 
suppose  on  the  general  principle  that  great 
writers  should  be  watched  at  all  times.  To  his 
"Delie,"  Mme.  C.,  he  wrote  often;  this  was  in 
1823,  when  he  was  fifty-five  years  of  age.  A 
certain  Mme.  Hamelin  supervened;  like  Sten 
dhal  he  mixed  up  his  amorous  affairs.  He  knew 
Stendhal,  and,  naturally,  disliked  him.  So  did 
Hugo  for  that  matter.  All  three  were  phi 
landerers.  Pauline  de  Beaumont  died  of  con 
sumption;  some  say  of  a  broken  heart.  Chateau 
briand  in  his  memoirs  bitterly  deplores  the  cold 
ness  some  men  show  to  the  living,  and  in  his 
gorgeous  rhetoric  paints  the  agony  of  the  sur 
vivor,  who  can  never  repair  his  ill  deeds.  What 
rhetoric!  Mme.  de  Beaumont  was  buried  at 
Rome  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Louis  des  Frangais. 
The  affair  with  that  enigmatic  but  beautiful 
Juliette  Bernard,  the  Lyonnaise,  better  known 
to  the  world  as  Mme.  Recamier,  the  friend  of 
Mme.  de  Stael,  immortalised  by  the  portrait 
sketch  by  David  in  the  Louvre,  was  the  most  re 
markable  in  the  long  life  of  Chateaubriand;  and 
what  a  length  the  intimacy  lasted.  He  first  met 
her  in  1801;  again  in  1814,  and  after  the  death 
of  Mme.  de  Stael  in  1817  their  relations  became 
friendly,  and  so  continued  until  his  death  in  1848 
(July  4).  Juliette  outlived  him  one  year  (May 
n,  1849).  Curiosity  has  never  been  stifled  on 
the  theme  of  Mme.  Recamier.  Her  marriage 
was  a  mere  convention,  on  that  all  authorities 
agree.  But  what  were  her  real  relations  with 


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Chateaubriand?  Here  we  stumble  across  an  in 
soluble  enigma.  The  truth  may  be  that  she  was 
neither  the  wife  nor  the  mistress  of  any  man. 
Before  the  advent  of  the  novelist,  whose  books 
are  an  ill-concealed  autobiography,  the  dominat 
ing  influence  of  her  life  was  "Corinne,"  the  mas- 
,culine,  brilliant  Anna  Louise  Germaine  Necker, 
|  Mme.  de  Stael,  detested  by  Napoleon,  who  once 
roughly  told  her  that  a  woman's  chief  business 
in  life  was  to  give  the  state  citizens.  Certainly 
Chateaubriand  won  no  favour  with  Juliette  Re- 
camier  until  after  De  StaePs  death.  However, 
the  case  may  not  be  so  puzzling  to  psychop- 
athists.  Mme.  Recamier  lies  in  the  Montmar- 
tre  Cemetery. 

With  the  passing  of  the  years  Chateaubriand 
became  a  lean,  unslippered  pantaloon ;  stone-deaf 
and  feeble,  he  daily  mounted,  with  the  aid  of 
canes  and  his  valet,  the  staircase  of  the  Ab- 
baye~au-Bois,  where  in  her  declining  years  lived 
that  sweet  old  lady  Mme.  Recamier.  She  was 
almost  blind.  Yet  she  received  him  gently, 
listened  to  his  grumbling,  and  inevitably  played 
for  him  a  faded  piano  piece  by  Stiebelt  (of  all 
composers,  sugar- water  for  canary  birds) .  When 
he  died  she  was  at  his  pillow.  He  had  deceived 
her,  she  loved  him;  he  loved  himself,  and  she 
gave  him  her  whole  life. 

The  episode  with  the  gay  Hortense  Allart  was 
not  so  pathetic.  She  was  called  "une  petite 
George  Sand,"  because  she  wrote  and  loved  so 
much.  She  did  not  break  her  heart  over  the  in- 


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fidelities  of  Chateaubriand,  for  she  committed 
a  few  herself.  M.  Beaunier,  with  the  rigorous 
logic  of  his  race,  has  compiled  a  time-table  of  the 
lady's  sentimental  voyages:  from  1826-1829, 
Capponi,  a  young  Italian  hero  of  the  risorgimento; 
from  1829  to  1831,  Chateaubriand;  from  1831 
to  1836,  Bulwer  Lytton;  from  1837  to  1840, 
"  pendant  quelques  jours,"  Sainte-Beuve;  from 
1843  to  1845  sne  was  the  wife  of  M.  de  Meritens. 
A  friend  of  Thiers,  a  fond  mother,  she  died  in  the 
odour  of  sanctity  in  1879,  and  is  buried  at  Bourg- 
la-Reine.  When  she  first  encountered  Chateau 
briand  at  Rome  he  regretfully  exclaimed:  "Ah! 
if  I  had  back  my  fifty  years."  Thereupon  the 
sprightly  lady  replied:  "Why  not  wish  for 
twenty-five?  "  "  No, ' '  moodily  returned  the  am 
bassador,  "fifty  will  do."  Which  recalls  the 
witty  design  of  Forain,  representing  a  very  old 
man  apostrophising  the  shadow  of  the  past: 
"Oh!  if  I  only  had  again  my  sixty-five  years.". 
We  forgot  the  names  of  Charlotte  Ives,  Del- 
phine  de  Custine,  the  little  Countess  de  Noailles, 
who  in  Spain  with  the  novelist  called  herself 
Dolores:  all  friends  of  the  puissant  one.  He 
nearly  married  Charlotte  Ives  in  London  in  a  mo 
ment  of  self-forgetfulness.  He  had  married  in 
1792  a  lady,  Mile.  Buisson  de  Lavigne,  who  was 
a  model  wife  for  many  years.  She  was  well  re 
ceived  at  Mme.  Recamier's  weekly  receptions. 
Philanderers  usually  have  good  wives,  and  phi 
landerers  are  generally  anxious  that  their  various 
feminine  friends  be  on  good  terms.  It  makes  life 


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smoother.     In  this  respect  Chateaubriand  was 
lucky,  for  he  was  an  ideal  philanderer. 

THE  NEW  ENGLISH  NIETZSCHE 

A  new  translation  of  the  works  of  Friedrich 
Nietzsche  is  now  in  progress  and  seventeen  vol 
umes  have  been  issued.  The  edition  will  be 
complete  in  eighteen  volumes  and  is  to  range 
from  the  five  lectures  On  the  Future  of  Our 
Educational  Institutions,  delivered  by  Nietzsche 
when  professor  of  classical  philology  at  Basle,  to 
the  autobiographical  "Ecce  Homo,"  which  saw 
the  light  of  publication  (hi  an  expensive  edition) 
last  year.  This  first  complete  and  authorised 
(by  Frau  Foerster-Nietzsche  of  Weimar)  trans 
lation  is  edited  by  Dr.  Oscar  Levy  of  London. 
Dr.  Levy  is  a  citizen  of  the  world,  author  of  Re 
vival  of  Aristocracy.  As  a  follower  of  Goethe, 
Stendhal,  and  Nietzsche  his  views  on  England 
and  English  institutions  are  distinctly  stirring. 
Rather  than  be  outdone  by  Heine  and  Stendhal, 
or  by  Nietzsche,  he  has  said  things  in  print  about 
England  which  make  the  famous  Egyptian 
Speech  read  like  mere  sophomoric  vapourings. 
In  the  present  series  he  has  renewed  the  charge  in 
an  editorial  note  and  an  introductory  essay,  both 
of  which  contain  many  vigorous  ideas.  For 
instance,  he  utters  the  timely  warning  to  students 
of  Nietzsche  "to  read  him  slowly,  to  think  over 
what  they  have  read  and  not  to  accept  too  read 
ily  a  teaching  which  they  have  only  half  under- 


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stood."  "By  a  too  ready  acceptance  of  Nietzsche 
it  has  come  to  pass,"  continues  Dr.  Levy,  "that 
his  enemies  are  as  a  rule  a  far  superior  body  of 
men  to  those  who  call  themselves  his  eager  and 
enthusiastic  followers."  Refreshing  candour  this 
from  a  Nietzschean  editor. 

The  truth  is  that  a  wave  of  Nietzscheism  is 
sweeping  English-reading  countries.  Ibsen  never 
had  the  personal  hold  on  his  auditors  that 
Nietzsche  now  has,  but  the  very  brilliancy  of 
phrasing  and  clarity  of  expression  are  pitfalls 
for  the  all  too  human  and  unwary  student. 
Nietzsche  is  never  more  enigmatic  than  when 
wearing  the  mask  of  mocking  Greeklike  blithe- 
ness  (heiterkeit),  and  already  the  path  of  his 
progress  is  strewn  with  the  bleaching  bones  of 
his  reckless  commentators.  Already  the  half- 
baked  in  philosophy  are  sending  letters  to  the 
newspapers  and  alas !  picking  out  his  most  poetic 
and  least  viable  ideas  for  idolatry.  This  new 
edition,  containing,  as  it  does,  such  sterling 
studies  as  The  Birth  of  Tragedy  and  Homer  and 
Classical  Philology  (his  inaugural  address  de 
livered  at  Basle  University,  May  28,  1869),  will 
show  the  hop  o'  the  moon  "  Nietzscheans "  that 
back  of  the  great  poet  was  the  sane  thinker  and 
man  of  science.  Not  that  we  take  exception  to 
the  doctrines,  if  doctrines  they  are,  of  the  Super 
man  and  the  Eternal  Recurrence,  but  that  we  be 
lieve  these  poetic  and  metaphysical  conceptions 
to  be  of  less  value  than  his  ideas  on  social  sub 
jects.  Nietzsche,  it  should  be  remembered,  was 
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a  great  psychologist,  perhaps  greater  as  such  than 
as  the  formula  tor  of  a  philosophic  system.  His 
Superman  is  a  counsel  of  perfection;  the  Eternal 
Return  an  old  Oriental  idea  newly  presented. 
As  to  his  escaping  metaphysics,  there  may  be 
quoted  his  own  desire  for  a  new  art,  "the  art  of 
metaphysical  comfort."  That  much  misunder 
stood  man  Max  S timer  once  in  writing  of  the 
economic  part  that  money  plays  in  life  declared 
that  "it  will  always  be  money."  For  thinkers  it 
will  always  be  "metaphysics,"  let  them  be  "real 
ists"  as  Nietzsche  believed  himself  to  be  or 
idealists  or  even  our  friends  with  the  smiling 
modern  face,  the  pragmatists.  You  can't  make 
bricks  without  straw,  symphonies  without  coun 
terpoint,  or  philosophy  without  metaphysics. 
Therefore  Nietzsche  is  no  more  a  short  cut  to 
the  philosophic  Parnassus  than  Kant  or  Hegel. 
The  danger  of  the  Nietzschean  deluge  is  this : 
the  very  culture-philis tines  he  so  heartily  de 
spised  when  alive  are  going  about  with  tags  and 
aphorisms  caked  in  their  daily  conversation. 
They  utterly  mistake  his  liberty  for  license,  not 
realising  the  narrow  and  tortuous  paths  he  has 
prepared  for  his  true  disciples.  Wagner  was  for 
years  obscured  by  the  Wagnerians,  Browning  by 
the  Browning  societies.  We  now  know  that  it  is 
the  poetry,  not  his  febrile  shrieking  at  a  straw 
god,  that  makes  Shelley  dear  to  us;  we  know 
that  in  Wagner  it  is  his  music  that  counts,  not 
his  preposterous  "philosophy";  in  Browning  his 
marvellous  dramatic  power  and  not  the  once 

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celebrated  Browning  "  profundities."  Nietzsche 
must  take  his  mud  bath  of  abuse  and  praise 
with  the  others,  though  he  will  survive  it  and 
emerge,  not  as  so  many  others  have,  men  of 
reputation,  a  mud  god  himself.  The  exegetical 
literature  in  English  concerning  him  is  multiply 
ing  apace,  and  we  rejoice  that  it  is  thus  far  of 
excellent  quality.  There  are  H.  L.  Mencken's 
admirable  study,  and  Dr.  M.  A.  Miigge's  Niet 
zsche  and  His  Life  and  Work,  a  resume  of  all  that 
Nietzsche  taught  and  of  the  criticism  he  evoked. 
To  our  notion  the  clearest  and  most  concise 
monograph  on  the  subject  is  The  Philosophy  of 
Friedrich  Nietzsche,  by  Grace  Neal  Dolson, 
A.B.,  Ph.D.,  formerly  fellow  of  Cornell  Univer 
sity.  Then  there  are  Dr.  Levy's  work  referred  to 
above,  the  selections  made  by  A.  R.  Orage;  The 
Quintessence  of  Nietzsche,  by  J.  M.  Kennedy; 
Who  Is  to  Be  Master  of  the  World?  by  A.  M. 
Ludovici;  On  the  Tracks  of  Life,  by  Leo  G.  Sera, 
Englished  by  Mr.  Kennedy.  But  as  Vasari  said 
of  the  Farnesina  Palace,  "non  murato  ma  ve- 
ramente  nato"  (not  built  but  really  born),  so 
must  the  Nietzsche  interpreter  have  a  moiety  of 
the  Dionysian  spirit  coursing  in  his  veins  to  do 
the  poet  and  philosopher  even  slim  justice. 

The  attitude  of  the  English  toward  the  Ger 
man  thinker  disconcerts  Dr.  Levy.  If  they 
would  only  fight  him;  but  to  accept  him  as  if  he 
were  the  "latest"  thing  in  fiction  is  truly  British. 
They  could  laugh  at  him  when  Shaw  served  him 
up  in  Celtic  epigram  with  sauce  socialistic,  but 
322 


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otherwise — !  Dr.  Levy  makes  the  rafters  ring 
with  his  sarcasm.  His  comparison  of  Benjamin 
Disraeli  and  Nietzsche  is  clever.  This  conti 
nental  Hebrew  good-naturedly  avers  that  it  is 
now  tune  for  a  little  " Christian  baiting"  after 
the  centuries  of  Jewish  persecutions.  There  is  a 
Heine-like  touch  in  the  humour  of  this  editor. 

The  introductions  to  Thoughts  Out  of  Season, 
Human,  All  Too  Human,  The  Birth  of  Tragedy, 
The  Will  to  Power,  by  the  various  translators  are 
brief  and  illuminating.  Above  all  there  is  no 
"sugaring  down,"  no  eliminatior  of  the  original 
thought,  which  with  the  Teutonic  English  was 
the  demerit  of  previous  English  translations.  For 
Adrian  Collins  the  burden  of  the  first  essay  in 
Part  II  of  Thoughts  Out  of  Season  (the  first 
chapter  on  The  Use  and  Abuse  of  History)  is 
that  "with  Nietzsche  the  historical  sense  became 
a  malady  from  which  men  suffer,  the  world  proc 
ess  an  illusion,  evolutionary  theories  a  subtle 
excuse  for  inactivity.  History  is  for  the  few,  not 
the  many.  ...  It  has  no  meaning  except  as 
the  servant  of  life  and  action,  and  most  of  us  can 
only  act  if  we  forget."  And  turning  from  the 
history  to  the  historian  he  condemns  the  "noisy 
little  fellows  who  measure  the  motives  of  the 
great  men  of  the  past  by  their  own  and  use  the 
past  to  justify  their  present." 

Nietzsche's  aim  is  "the  elevation  of  the  type 
man,"  a  species  of  transcendental  moral  eugenics. 
For  those  to  whom  socialism  is  a  disgust  we 
recommend  his  The  Will  to  Power,  now  for 

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ithe  first  time  done  into  English  by  Anthony 
M.  Ludovici.  How  well  Mr.  Ludovici  has 
grasped  the  much  abused  "immoralism"  may  be 
found  in  his  preface:  " Nietzsche  only  objected 
to  the  influence  of  herd  morality  outside  the  herd ; 
that  is  to  say,  among  exceptional  and  higher  men 
who  may  be  wrecked  by  it.  Whereas  most  other 
philosophers  before  him  had  been  the  altruists  of 
the  lower  strata  of  humanity,  Nietzsche  may  be 
aptly  called  the  altruist  of  the  exceptions,  of  the 
particular  lucky  cases  among  men  " ;  and  how,  as 
the  true  poet  he  was,  the  idea  first  came  to  him 
as  a  concrete  image  may  be  read  in  the  account 
told  by  his  sister  Elizabeth  when  he  conceived 
The  Will  to  Power  as  the  fundamental  principle 
of  all  life.  In  1870  he  was  serving  as  a  volunteer 
at  the  seat  of  war  in  a  German  army  ambulance 
corps.  "On  one  occasion,"  she  relates,  " at  the 
close  of  a  very  heavy  day  with  the  wounded  he 
happened  to  enter  a  small  town  which  lay  on 
one  of  the  chief  military  roads.  He  was  wander 
ing  through  it  in  a  leisurely  fashion  when  sud 
denly,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  a  street  that 
was  protected  on  either  side  by  lofty  stone  walls, 
he  heard  a  roaring  noise,  as  of  thunder,  which 
seemed  to  come  from  the  immediate  neighbour 
hood.  He  hurried  forward  a  step  or  two,  and 
what  should  be  see  but  a  magnificent  cavalry 
regiment,  gloriously  expressive  of  the  courage  and 
exuberant  strength  of  a  people,  ride  past  him 
like  a  luminous  storm-cloud.  The  thundering 
din  waxed  louder  and  louder,  and  lo  and  behold ! 

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his  own  beloved  regiment  of  field  artillery  dashed 
forward  at  full  speed  out  of  the  mist  of  motes 
and  sped  westward  amid  an  uproar  of  clattering 
chains  and  galloping  steeds.  .  .  .  While  this  pro 
cession  passed  before  him  on  its  way  to  war  and 
perhaps  to  death,  so  wonderful  in  its  vital 
strength  and  formidable  courage  and  so  perfectly 
symbolic  of  a  race  that  will  conquer  and  prevail 
or  perish  in  the  attempt,  Nietzsche  was  struck 
with  the  thought  that  the  highest  will  to  live 
could  not  find  its  expression  in  a  miserable  strug 
gle  for  existence,  a  la  Darwin,  but  in  a  will  to 
war,  a  Will  to  Power,  a  will  to  overpower." 

Yet  this  philosopher  of  mankind  militant,  of 
the  joy  of  existence,  if  existence  is  a  conflict  not 
a  concession,  this  hater  of  facile  optimism  and  the 
smug  flatterers  of  the  mob,  could  turn  on  his 
fellow-countrymen  after  the  victories  of  1871  and 
tell  them  that  as  a  race  they  were  hopelessly 
uncultured  and  uncouth.  Very  different  from 
Richard  Wagner,  who  insulted  the  French  in 
the  bitterness  of  defeat  and  fawned  for  favours 
at  the  German  court.  Altogether  this  new  Eng 
lish  edition  is  treasure-trove  for  the  students  of 
Nietzsche. 

THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  VERLAINE 

One  evening,  when  nearing  the  close  of  his 
sad  and  extraordinary  career,  Paul  Verlaine  said 
to  some  of  his  friends  assembled  at  a  cafe  table: 
"I  wish  for  nothing  better  than  the  existence  of 

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BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

a  plain  citizen  in  the  Rue  Mouffetard";  nor  was 
this  a  vain  boast  made  by  the  poet,  a  hater  of  the 
bourgeois  and  their  habits,  himself  held  up  as  an 
awful  example  by  decent  members  of  society. 
Verlaine  was  worn  by  dissipation,  suffering  from 
rheumatism,  from  stomach  troubles.  He  longed 
for  the  quiet  of  home,  for  the  care  of  a  good 
woman.  No  more  absinthe,  no  more  amer  picon, 
no  more  little  glasses  of  cognac!  Temperance 
and  hard  work  were  to  be  incorporated  in  his 
plans  for  the  future,  and  in  effect  he  did  behave 
himself  so  admirably  for  several  months  that  the 
cafes  of  the  "left  bank"  wondered  if  he  were 
dead  or  in  one  of  his  favourite  hospitals.  The 
Francois-Premier,  the  Soleil  d'Or,  the  Procope, 
the  Escholiers,  the  Monome,  and  the  Maccha- 
bees  missed  him,  as  did  the  bars  of  the  Chope 
Latine  and  the  Academic  of  the  Rue  Saint- 
Jacques;  whenever  the  poet  settled  down  for  a 
prolonged  drinking  bout,  disciples  would  gather 
and  then  business  was  sure  to  be  brisk.  The  only 
news  that  could  be  gleaned  of  his  whereabouts 
was  that  he  was  indoors,  in  a  little  apartment 
plying  his  pen  and  under  the  watchful  eye  of 
Eugenie  Krantz,  otherwise  known  at  the  Bal 
Bullier  as  Nini-Mouton  because  of  her  abundant 
blond  woolly  tresses. 

Not  long  ago  at  Paris  the  annual  dinner  was 
given  in  memory  of  Verlaine,  and  afterward  the 
guests  went  to  his  monument  in  the  Luxem 
bourg  Gardens,  which  was  inaugurated  last  year. 
It  is  a  bizarre  affair  by  the  sculptor  Nieder- 
326 


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hausern  de  Rodo;  that  it  suggests  an  absinthe 
flask  has  not  caused  much  concern  among  his 
admirers,  for  like  Alfred  de  Musset  Verlaine  was 
a  notable  victim  of  the  Green  Fairy.  But  the 
project  for  this  same  monument  aroused  in  cer 
tain  circles  the  most  violent  opposition,  which 
not  even  the  presence  of  men  the  most  distin 
guished  in  literature  and  the  fine  arts  at  the  con 
secration  ceremonies  could  totally  suppress.  But 
there  it  stands  to  the  memory  of  the  modern 
Villon,  to  the  Pauvre  Lelian,  whose  voice  is 
sweetest  and  subtlest  in  the  hoarser  and  more 
rhetorical  choir  of  French  poets.  He  was  a 
loose  liver,  with  the  temperament  of  a  spoiled 
child,  a  genius  who  never  grew  up.  The  world 
has  forgiven  him  his  vagaries,  many  of  them 
largely  a  matter  of  pose,  for  the  unaffected  beau 
ties  of  his  verse.  Let  the  heathen  rage.  Paul 
Verlaine  will  not  be  forgotten,  even  in  an  epoch 
that  saw  two  such  great  poets  as  Victor  Hugo  and 
Charles  Baudelaire. 

Messrs.  F.  A.  Cazals  and  Gustave  le  Rouge 
have  told  all  there  is  worth  knowing  about  the 
last  days  of  the  poet  in  their  Derniers  jours  de 
Verlaine.  He  had  dragged  his  rheumatic  leg 
and  exacerbated  nerves  from  hospital  to  hos 
pital,  from  the  Broussin  to  Tenon,  from  Saint- 
Antoine,  Cochin  to  the  Maison  Dubois,  Bichat, 
Saint  Louis,  he  even  had  dreamed  of  retiring 
within  the  mad  wards  of  Sainte-Anne.  What 
joy,  he  said,  to  associate  with  simple  souls  who 
fancied  themselves  Christ,  Mohammed,  Na- 

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BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

poleon!  He  would  have  liked  his  cards  en 
graved:  "Paul  Verlaine,  Madman,  Asylum 
Sainte-Anne,  Paris."  But  he  confessed  that  he 
was  only  an  accursed  poet  and  such  luck  was  not 
for  him.  His  friend  Stephane  Mallarme  had  re 
peatedly  warned  him  against  the  abuse  of  ab 
sinthe;  Verlaine  replied  that  he  drank  it  to 
forget,  not  for  the  drink  itself,  that  familiar  fal 
lacy  of  alcoholic  victims.  Poor  Verlaine  was 
ever  seeking  to  banish  the  present  and  evoke 
the  past,  that  disgraceful  and  wonderful  past  in 
which  two  poets,  Rimbaud  and  Lelian,  swam 
through  golden  mists  of  ecstasy  or  sank  into  the 
black  fogs  of  despair. 

However,  he  did  pull  himself  together  for  a 
time.  The  three  vultures  that  fought  for  his 
meagre  favours  —  his  poverty  was  appalling  — 
Eugenie  Krantz,  Philomene  Boudin,  and  the 
enigmatic  creature  who  simply  called  herself 
Esther,  were  finally  resolved  into  one,  Eugenie, 
an  illiterate,  good-hearted  woman  of  the  people, 
who  worshipped  Verlaine  as  a  kind  of  incompre 
hensible  deity,  yet  did  not  refrain  from  giving 
him  a  taste  of  her  muscular  arm  when  he  came 
home  fuddled.  She  supers titiously  saved  scraps 
of  paper  upon  which  he  had  scribbled,  believing 
that  they  would  be  worth  money  after  his  death. 
Had  she  not  seen  the  publisher  Vannier  over  on 
the  Quai  hand  her  good  man  a  gold  piece  for  a 
few  lines?  Poetry  then  had  a  definite  value  for 
this  big-boned  guardian  of  the  shrine.  After  the 
passing  of  Verlaine  there  wasn't  much  to  seek 

3*8 


BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

in  his  writing-desk.  Though  Eugenie  Krantz 
deceived  Verlaine  with  the  utmost  tranquillity, 
yet  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  he  would  have  died 
in  a  hospital,  a  prospect  that  he  had  always 
feared.  She  did  not  long  survive  him.  She  died 
from  intemperance,  which  she  paid  for  by  the 
sale  of  autographs  and  certain  rare  papers  of  the 
poet,  among  the  rest  a  fragment  of  his  Louis 
XVII. 

The  poet  must  have  led  her  a  merry  dance. 
He  was  the  most  irresponsible  of  men.  A  wed 
ding,  a  funeral,  a  simple  trip  to  church,  often  re 
sulted  in  disappearances  for  days  at  a  time.  He 
had  been  an  assiduous  guest  at  the  home  of 
Mme.  Nina  de  Callias,  a  young  woman,  talented, 
vivacious,  and  a  patron  saint  of  artists  and  liter 
ary  men.  She  had  private  means  and  kept  open 
house  for  the  hungry  and  thirsty  of  the  tribe 
bohemian.  A  very  interesting  account  of  her 
may  be  found  in  The  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life 
by  George  Moore,  who,  a  lively  young  Irishman, 
was  gadding  about  Paris  at  the  time.  Mme. 
Nina  was  separated  from  her  husband,  M.  Hector 
de  Callias,  once  a  brilliant  journalist,  also  a  back 
slider  from  the  principles  of  temperance.  He 
was  practically  unknown  to  her  circle,  and  the 
astonishment  was  great  when  he  turned  up  at 
the  funeral,  solemn  of  mien  and  garb.  He  led 
the  cortege  as  nearest  of  kin,  accompanied  by  his 
friend  Verlaine.  What  this  pair  talked  about 
on  the  long  road  to  the  cemetery,  from  the  Ba- 
tignolles  to  the  Pare  d'Orleans,  is  not  difficult  to 

329 


BROWSING  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

fancy;  but  they  held  themselves  in  good  shape 
till  the  obsequies  were  ended  and  the  little  Nina 
laid  in  her  last  resting-place.  Then  Hector  de 
Callias,  his  throat  dry  as  a  lime-kiln,  decamped, 
leaving  to  the  poet  Charles  Cros  the  duty  of 
doing  the  final  hand-shaking  with  the  mourners. 
Verlaine  followed  him  shortly  after,  and  on  the 
return  one  by  one  the  men  and  women  who  had 
been  the  beneficiaries  of  the  dead  Nina  dropped 
from  the  ranks.  The  day  was  a  warm  one  and 
cafes  numerous.  What  that  cortege  numbered 
when  it  reached  the  Batignolles  no  one  has 
told;  the  entire  episode  reminds  us  of  Gounod's 
humorous  and  sardonic  Funeral  March  of  a 
Marionette.  Hector  and  Paul  did  not  reappear 
in  their  accustomed  haunts  for  a  week.  Later, 
at  Fontainebleau,  De  Callias  was  put  on  a  milk 
diet  by  his  physician's  order,  and  he  died  from 
the  experiment,  so  they  say. 

Not  even  this  example  proved  a  warning  for 
Verlaine.  He  soon  slipped  into  his  old  wet  rut, 
and  as  there  is  an  end  to  all  things,  even  to  a 
thirsty  poet,  he  died  January  8, 1896.  He  wrote 
his  last  poem,  not  inappropriately  entitled  Mort, 
January  5.  A  fever  set  in;  during  the  night  he 
fell  out  of  bed  and  was  discovered  unconscious. 
A  sinapism  was  applied.  "That  bites,"  he  mur 
mured;  this  was  his  last  sentence,  after  that  he 
merely  babbled  the  names  of  friends.  The  state 
paid  the  expenses  of  his  burial,  which  was  the 
signal  for  the  presence  of  many  celebrated  per 
sons,  Anatole  France  heading  the  list.  Ver- 

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laine  died  a  repentant  sinner;  he  had  always 
been  that,  always  sinning,  always  repenting.  His 
verse  is  the  record  in  exquisite  music  of  the  con 
tradictory  nature  of  the  man.  It  made  him 
marvellous  enemies,  this  nature  of  his.  And  his 
statue  is  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  to-day. 


XI 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

THE  pathos  of  distance!  It  is  a  memorial 
phrase.  Friedrich  Nietzsche  is  its  creator, 
Nietzsche  who  wrote  of  the  drama  and  its  origins 
in  a  work  that  is  become  a  classic.  Distance 
lends  pathos,  bathes  in  rosy  enchantments  the 
simplest  events  of  a  mean  past;  is  the  painter, 
in  a  word,  who  with  skilful,  consoling  touches 
disguises  all  that  was  sordid  in  our  youth,  all 
that  once  mortified  or  disgusted,  and  bridges  the 
inequality  of  man  and  man.  And  to  our  recol 
lection  of  favourite  actors  and  actresses,  the  sub- 
consciousness,  in  the  dark  room  of  which  are 
stored  all  the  old  negatives  of  our  life,  adds  a 
glow  that  is  positively  fascinating. 

Recall,  if  you  are  a  trifle  grey  and  faded,  recall 
now,  after  your  morning  coffee,  Adelaide  Neil- 
son.  Eh,  my  old  bucks,  have  I  jolted  sweet 
souvenirs?  Was  there  ever  such  a  Juliet,  ever 
such  a  Viola,  ever  such  a  Rosalind  ?  Emphatic 
ally  no,  our  memory  cells  tell  us. 

Yet  we  criticised  Adelaide  Neilson  when  she 
first  appeared,  criticised  her  Juliet,  and  during 
her  later  visits  to  America  we  criticised  her  Viola. 
Every  one  criticises.  Never  forget  that  fact. 
The  only  difference  between  your  criticism  and 

332 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

mine  is  that  I  am  paid  for  mine.  That  doesn't 
necessarily  make  it  better.  But  the  statement 
is  well  to  keep  in  mind.  If  you  disagree  with 
me,  you  are  only  criticising  my  criticism.  By 
the  same  token  I  may  challenge  yours.  Lillian 
Russell  in  one  of  her  metaphysical  moods  —  Miss 
Russell  thinks  profoundly  at  times  —  put  the 
question  in  a  nutshell:  "  After  all,"  she  remarked, 
"it  is  only  one  man's  criticism."  This  phrase  is 
magnificent  in  its  anarchic  spirit,  even  if  it  is  not 
exactly  original.  She  touched  a  tender  spot:  it 
is  always  one  man's  criticism.  And  no  man 
thinks  or  feels  as  another.  That  is  physiology, 
as  well  as  psychology.  When  dramatic  critics 
disagree,  the  incident  should  be  acclaimed  in 
stead  of  derided.  If  they  always  agreed,  then 
how  quickly  that  stale  accusation  would  be  re 
peated  —  conspiracy. 

Here  is  a  criticism  from  a  Philadelphia  journal 
written  when  Miss  Neilson  played  Viola  in 
Twelfth  Night,  I  think,  but  I  am  not  sure,  in 
the  season  of  1876-77  (and  I've  forgotten  who 
wrote  it): 

"There  was  nothing  about  her  performance 
demanding  extended  or  minute  criticism.  It  was 
in  most  respects  a  pleasing  and  amiable  repre 
sentation  from  a  lady  who  has  comeliness,  in 
telligence,  and  familiarity  with  all  the  mechanical 
processes  of  her  art.  She  was  prettily  dressed, 
and  she  contrived  to  express  with  much  nicety 
the  shy  coyness  of  the  maiden  beneath  the  half- 

333 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

hearted  boldness  and  self-assertion  of  the  man. 
Her  posturing  and  gesticulation  were  easy  and 
graceful,  and  her  treatment  of  the  text  was 
sometimes  good,  but  very  often  bad.  Frequently 
the  sharpest  ears  of  her  audience  failed  to  catch 
her  words,  and  more  than  once  when  they  were 
caught  there  were  mistakes  of  inflection  and  em 
phasis  which  told  of  carelessness  and  indiffer 
ence  to  study." 

Mark  what  follows:  "The  part  has  been  taken 
as  well  by  actresses  of  inferior  reputation  and 
less  persistent  claims  to  greatness.  In  one  in 
stance  it  was  played  by  Mrs.  John  Drew  in  a 
manner  which  Miss  Neilson  can  never  hope  to 
rival." 

Isn't  that  breath-catching,  especially  when 
the  youngsters  of  to-day  are  told  by  their  oldsters 
that  Adelaide  Neilson  was  the  perfect  incarna 
tion  of  Shakespeare's  Viola  ?  Yet  here  is  a  critic 
writing  in  no  uncertain  tone  about  the  mediocrity 
of  her  impersonation.  The  fact  that  he  may 
have  lived  to  repent  that  criticism  does  not  alter 
the  still  sterner  fact  of  its  having  been  written 
and  published. 

Mr.  William  Winter  speaks  of  Miss  Neilson's 
exquisite  embodiment  of  Viola.  He  wrote  of 
this  actress  in  1877.  Therefore  there  was  no 
pathos  of  distance  in  his  criticism.  When  I  saw 
her,  Eben  Plympton  was  the  Sebastian,  and  a 
sterling  interpretation  it  was.  Strange  as  it 

334 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

sounds,  Mr.  Plympton  looked  like  Neilson  in  the 
play.  Mr.  Walcot,  if  I  can  remember  aright, 
was  the  Malvolio,  though  perhaps  not  in  the  cast 
with  Plympton.  McDonough  was  Sir  Toby, 
Howard  the  Sir  Andrew,  Hemple  the  Clown,  Miss 
Barbour  the  Maria.  But  this  must  have  been 
at  an  earlier  representation.  In  those  days  I 
haunted  the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia, 
quite  stage-mad,  full  of  the  pimply  ideals  of 
youth,  and  I  do  not  regret  it  now,  for  I  "assisted" 
at  Ada  Rehan's  debut,  John  Drew's  debut,  the 
first  appearance  of  his  sister,  clever,  sparkling 
Georgie  Drew  Barrymore,  and  also  the  first 
appearance  of  Edwin  Booth  as  Wolsey  in  1876. 
I  detest  theatrical  memoirs,  books  about  the 
debuts  of  actors,  and  all  the  miscellaneous  chron 
icling  of  theatrical  small  beer,  and  yet  I  am 
thick  in  the  tide  of  just  such  gossip. 

Mr.  Winter,  in  his  study  of  Twelfth  Night, 
gives  a  list  of  the  principal  American  casts.  The 
only  ones  that  interest  us  are  those  we  have  our 
selves  seen.  In  the  theatre,  nothing  is  so  potent 
as  the  sight.  Reading  of  a  remarkable  perform 
ance  is  getting  b'fe  at  third  hand,  not  at  second. 
So  1820  does  not  appeal  to  me  as  much  as  1877, 
when  Mr.  Daly  revived  Twelfth  Night  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  —  when  it  was  at  Twenty-eighth 
Street  —  with  Neilson  as  Viola  and  Charles 
Fisher  as  Malvolio.  Edward  Compton,  Barton 
Hill,  George  Clarke,  and  Henry  E.  Dixey  have 
played  Malvolio,  and  shall  we  ever  forget  Henry 
Irving?  The  Malvolio  of  Beerbohm  Tree  I  wit- 

335 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

nessed  at  what  was  then  Her  Majesty's  Theatre 
in  1901.  Mr.  Winter  mentions  Charles  Walcot. 
He  was  my  first  Malvolio,  and  naturally  enough 
he  seemed  the  best.  The  Violas  we  have  seen 
here  were  Mrs.  Scott  Siddons,  Ellen  Terry, 
Fanny  Davenport,  Marie  Wainwright,  Helena 
Modjeska,  —  after  Neilson's,  the  most  poetic,  - 
Ada  Rehan,  Julia  Marlowe,  Viola  Allen,  and 
Edith  Wynne  Matthison.  Mrs.  Drew  played 
Viola  in  her  palmy  days,  and  Mr.  Winter  gives 
a  complete  array  of  the  old-time  actresses  who 
were  famous  in  the  role.  Alas,  such  is  the 
evanescent  nature  of  the  actor's  art,  an  art  writ 
in  water,  that  these  names  are  mere  spots  of 
black  ink  on  white  paper  —  unless  one  has  a 
sympathetic  imagination  and  loves  to  grub  in 
antiquities  and  Shakespeariana.  I  do  not.  The 
last  play  of  a  Hauptmann  or  a  Maeterlinck  gives 
me  more  of  a  thrill  than  all  the  musty  memories 
of  the  days  that  are  no  more,  and  of  the  dust 
on  forgotten  tombs.  To-day  is  more  than  a  mill 
ion  yesterdays  or  to-morrows!  Let  the  theat 
rical  dead  bury  the  theatrical  dead!  Yet  here 
I  am  circling  about  the  past  like  a  fat  moth  in 
a  lean  flame.  The  pathos  of  distance! 

But  halt  a  moment.  As  you  have  seen,  there 
were  doubters  in  Israel  even  when  Adelaide 
Neilson  appeared,  a  glorious  apparition  from 
some  hidden  Arcady.  As  I  remember,  the  the 
atrical  small  talk  of  those  days  set  her  down  as 
an  uneducated  woman  who  was  literally  drilled 

336 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

into  speaking  her  own  tongue.  She  looked 
Oriental:  but  she  was  English  born,  without  a 
father's  name;  her  mother,  an  obscure  actress, 
was  named  Browne.  Her  father  was  said  to  have 
been  Spanish,  and  also  Jewish.  Like  nearly  all 
the  players,  from  David  Garrick  and  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  to  Edwin  Booth  and  Mrs.  Kendal,  from 
Edmund  Kean  to  Richard  Mansfield,  Adelaide 
Neilson  perhaps  had  a  moiety  of  that  Hebraic 
blood  in  her  veins  which  George  du  Maurier 
declared  a  precious  quintessence  for  an  artist. 
And  Neilson  showed  it,  not  alone  in  her  royal, 
dusky  beauty,  but  in  her  brilliancy  of  style, 
her  marvellously  rapid  intuitive  processes,  her 
warmth  of  temperament,  and  the  rich  colour  of 
her  interpretations. 

How  did  she  play  Viola?  As  a  poem  in  the 
living.  One  glance  of  her  beautiful  eyes  con 
futed  a  wilderness  of  traditions.  When  she 
walked  we  heard  music.  And  when  she  spoke 
violets  and  roses  fell  from  her  lips ! 

What's  this?  Am  I,  too,  pressing  the  main 
spring  of  memory?  And  is  it  only  the  pathos  of 
distance?  No,  a  thousand  times,  no !  Hear  the 
voice  of  one  older  than  I:  "Her  image,  as  it  rises 
in  memory,  is  not  that  of  the  actress  who  stormed 
the  citadel  of  all  hearts  in  the  delirium  of  Juliet, 
or  dazzled  with  the  witchery  of  Rosalind's  glee 
or  Viola's  tender  grace;  but  it  is  that  of  the 
grave,  sweet  woman,  who,  playing  softly  in  the 
twilight,  sang  —  in  a  rich,  tremulous,  touching 
voice  —  the  anthem  on  the  man  of  sorrows  ac- 

337 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

quainted  with  grief!"  Thus  William  Winter, 
who  can  also  pour  vitriol  on  his  critical  sugar 
better  than  any  man.  It  shows  what  a  hold 
Neilson  the  woman  had  on  all  of  us  in  those  half- 
forgotten  days. 

How  did  she  play  Viola?  Without  a  return 
to  juvenile  rhapsody  I  can  answer  truthfully  — 
better  than  any  other  actress  that  I  ever  saw  — 
Remember  that  this  is  only  one  man's  opinion. 
She  was  very  unequal,  very  capricious,  and,  by 
an  odd  contradiction,  sometimes  mechanical.  I 
saw  her  once  at  a  matinee  when  she  tore  the  text 
to  tatters.  Being  a  creature  of  moods,  she  re 
cited  in  a  toneless  voice  her  lines  until  half  the 
play  was  past,  and  then  electrified  us  with  her 
arch  humour,  tenderness,  and  intense  passion. 
For  the  delineation  of  the  amorous,  the  dreamy, 
melting,  sighing,  or  furnace-hot  passion  Neilson 
had  no  equal  in  her  epoch.  Her  Viola  was  more 
various  than  the  Violas  of  her  contemporaries. 
Its  elegiac,  poetic  side,  was  better  portrayed 
by  Modjeska  —  but  Modjeska,  let  it  be  re 
membered,  had  to  struggle  with  a  strange  lan 
guage;  and  despite  the  music,  the  most  subtle 
music,  —  for  she  was  a  Pole  and  a  countrywoman 
of  Chopin's,  —  she  breathed  into  her  speech,  it 
was  ever  a  veil  between  her  and  her  auditory. 

No  such  limitation  existed  in  the  case  of  Neil- 
son.  Poetic  she  was,  but  poetry  realised;  not 
the  diaphanous  personality  of  Modjeska,  but  a 
real  flesh-and-blood  woman  stood  before  you  be 
witching  your  senses  and  appealing  to  your 

338 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

imagination.  Her  beauty,  with  all  its  palpable 
surfaces,  while  not  exotic,  as  is  Duse's,  reached 
the  imagination  like  a  bullet  surely  sped  to  its 
mark.  Perhaps  it  was  all  a  mask,  perhaps  a 
sweet,  commonplace  woman  peeped  out  at  her 
audience,  amused  at  the  havoc  she  played  with 
our  hearts  and  heads.  I  have  heard  this  said; 
but  I  prefer  to  cherish  the  illusion,  for  beautiful 
illusions  are  the  only  reality  in  a  world  of  ugly 
dreams.  Neilson,  starry-eyed  Adelaide,  we  still 
salute  your  memory!  For  our  generation  you 
are  the  first  Viola,  let  the  others  do  what  they 
will.  Alas,  is  it  the  pathos  of  distance? 

And  the  others!  A  superb  group !  Ellen  Terry 
of  yesterday,  felicitous,  abounding  in  sweet  mad 
cap  merriment,  her  melancholy  but  skin-deep, 
her  love,  the  joy  of  life  personified.  Mrs.  Scott 
Siddons,  grave  and  imperial  in  her  beauty, 
read  Viola.  I  never  saw  her  on  the  boards  in 
this  character.  Marie  Wainwright  and  Fanny 
Davenport  were  Violas  satisfactory  of  schooling. 
Miss  Rehan,  brilliant  and  abounding  in  vitality, 
did  not  sound,  or  did  not  care  to  sound,  the 
deeper  organ  tones  of  the  disguised  Cesario. 
Hers  was  an  assumption  that  I  cared  less  for 
than  her  Rosalind.  Its  key-note  was  brilliancy, 
wit,  and  aristocratic  distinction;  above  all,  per 
sonal  distinction. 

Julia  Marlowe's  Viola  is  conceived  and  played 
more  naturally  than  others  I  remember.  Few 
actresses  would  dare  discard  the  obvious  readings 
and  theatrical  devices  as  does  Miss  Marlowe. 

339 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

But  if  she  is  natural  she  has  much  to  thank 
nature  for  —  personal  charm,  a  comely  figure 
and  sweet  face,  and  a  voice  the  richest  on 
the  English-speaking  stage.  And  brains  in 
abundance  direct  this  unique  ensemble  of  at 
tractions.  No  one  reads  blank  verse  with  the 
simplicity  and  art  of  Miss  Marlowe.  Her  con 
ception  of  the  role  compels  by  its  subtle  com- 
minglement  of  grace  and  poetry.  Some  of  her 
speeches  are  tear-moving;  her  assumption  of 
boyish  youth  never  disillusions.  0  rare  Julia 
Marlowe! 

And,  at  last,  we  reach,  after  a  fatiguing  and 
elliptical  route,  Edith  Wynne  Matthison  and  her 
Viola.  Again  let  me  disclaim,  at  the  risk  of  pro 
testing  too  much,  that  my  opinion  has  no  finality. 
Only  fools  are  consistent,  says  Emerson;  and  the 
Jove  of  Weimar,  Goethe,  remarked  that  only 
fools  are  modest.  So  I  hope  I  shall  be  accused  of 
neither  consistency  nor  modesty  when  I  wonder 
audibly  why  Miss  Matthison  has  not  made  more 
of  a  stir  in  the  dramatic  world.  She  has  that 
rarest  of  gifts,  personality.  And  yet  her  Viola 
did  not  intrigue  me  as  vastly  as  I  had  expected. 
I  still  adhere  to  my  first  opinion,  and  will  con 
tinue  to  do  so  until  this  charming  actress  plays 
the  part  in  a  different  key.  She  is  too  sombre, 
she  lacks  in  buoyancy,  lacks  in  mood  versatility 
—  and  what  is  Viola  if  not  buoyant,  replete  with 
fleeting  moods,  a  creature  of  fire  and  air,  caprice, 
sunshine,  and  fantasy? 

340 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

Miss  Matthison,  thanks  to  the  funereal  atmos 
phere  of  the  Elizabethan  setting,  plays  within  a 
narrow  octave  of  Viola's  moods.  She  gives  us 
all  of  her  melancholy  music,  her  veiled  ardour, 
her  self-effacement.  Her  horizon  brightens  in 
the  scenes  with  Olivia.  She  essays  comedy  with 
a  delicate  touch.  Melancholy,  not  vaporous  as 
is  Orsino's,  but  pessimistic  and  modern  in  its 
essence,  is  what  I  feel  as  the  foundation  of  Miss 
Matthison's  reading.  That  she  is  the  greatest 
Viola  since  Neilson's  I  dare  not  say.  She  is  not 
so  poetic  as  Modjeska;  not  so  audaciously 
masterful  as  Rehan.  She  is  unique  in  her  inter 
pretation,  inasmuch  as  it  presents  us  with  a 
Viola  all  gracious  in  her  sadness,  Viola  abso 
lutely  in  the  mode  minor. 

With  that  canorous  voice,  its  triste  and  dying 
fall,  the  many  cadences  of  her  speech,  the  pensive 
beauty  of  brow  and  sweet  mobile  mouth,  Miss 
Matthison  ought  to  go  far  —  not  as  far  as  Neil- 
son,  not  so  poetically  high  as  Modjeska,  yet  far. 
I  did  not  detect  evidence  of  a  supreme  imagina 
tion,  but  I  have  only  seen  her  twice  on  the  boards. 
She  seems  to  have  more  fancy  than  imagination. 
We  miss  the  big,  sweeping  draught  of  a  command 
ing  personality.  She  is  persuasive,  not  compel 
ling.  And  that  is  one  of  her  charms  —  that  same 
insinuating  personality.  For  the  rest,  I  can  only 
aver  that  her  hands  are  beautiful  hands,  not  so 
pregnant  with  meaning  as  Duse's,  not  so  poetic 
as  the  pianist  Essipoff's,  but  physically  beauti 
ful.  Her  features  are  firmly  modelled,  interest- 

341 


THE  PATHOS   OF  DISTANCE 

mg  in  their  irregularity  and  effective  in  profile. 
With  Miss  Matthison  it  is  more  than  —  item: 
A  pair  of  lips,  or  eyes,  or  hands;  it  is  the  gen 
erous  and  rich  nature  which  shines  through  her 
eyes,  is  manifest  in  her  melodic  speech.  But 
a  great  Viola  — no!  Again,  you  will  say,  the 
pathos  of  distance! 


34* 


XII 
IN  PRAISE  OF  FIREWORKS 

THE  art  of  the  fireworker  is  pre-eminently 
suited  to  summer  climes;  in  the  hyperborean 
regions  nature  saves  man  the  bother  of  inventing 
pyrotechnics,  as  all  know  who  have  witnessed  the 
glory  of  northern  skies  at  night;  but  wherever 
are  lands  that  boast  warm  evenings  there  may  be 
seen  fantastic-coloured  fires  aloft  and  admiring 
crowds  below.  Considering  the  antiquity  of  this 
art,  which  was  practised  thousands  of  years  ago 
in  China,  it  has  not  progressed  with  its  sister 
arts. 

Architecture  has  come  to  a  flowering  and  a 
decay  in  many  countries;  sculpture  from  Phidias 
to  Rodin  has  met  with  many  victories  and  many 
vicissitudes.  But  since  the  Greeks  has  there 
been  great  sculpture?  Literature,  like  the  poor, 
we  shall  always  have  with  us  —  that  is  some 
sort,  if  not  distinguished  or  original.  Painting, 
according  to  criticism,  reached  its  apogee  with 
the  Italians  of  the  Renaissance,  ,and  in  Spain  with 
Velasquez.  Remains  music  —  for  we  need  not 
include  just  now  the  entire  seven  arts.  Philip 
Hale  has  said  that  since  Beethoven  music  has 
made  no  distinct  advance;  permutations  almost 
innumerable  there  have  been,  but  original  utter- 

343 


IN  PRAISE  OF  FIREWORKS 

ance  there  has  been  little.  Men  of  genius,  such 
as  Schubert,  Schumann,  Chopin,  Berlioz,  Liszt, 
have  each  contributed  something  to  the  mighty 
cairn  of  music;  however,  despite  their  strong 
individuality,  they,  like  modern  painters,  have 
only  developed  certain  sides  of  their  art.  Crea 
tors  in  the  sense  that  Beethoven  was  a  creator 
they  are  not.  Richard  Wagner,  less  original  in 
melodic  gifts,  was,  thanks  to  a  more  potent  per 
sonality,  more  successful  in  erecting  a  formal 
edifice,  which,  combining  —  so  he  believed  —  all 
the  arts  in  one  huge  synthesis,  he  named  the 
music-drama. 

Now,  in  his  general  scenic  scheme  light  plays 
an  important  role.  We  need  not  remind  opera- 
goers  of  the  gorgeous  effects  he  introduces  into 
the  Ring;  the  dull  golden  haze  of  the  Rhinegold 
in  the  first  act,  the  infernal  smithy  of  the  Nibe- 
lung  gnomes  or  the  rainbow  apotheosis  at  the 
close.  Die  Walkiire,  too,  is  rich  in  fiery  incan 
tations,  the  mystic  light  on  the  hero's  sword,  the 
moonlight,  the  electric  storm  in  which  Siegmund 
and  Hunding  battle,  or  the  forge  episode  in  Sieg 
fried;  even  flame  is  vomited  from  the  dragon's 
mouth,  young  Siegfried  defeats  his  grandfather 
Wotan  amid  fire,  and  fire-begirt  he  finds  a  bride. 
In  fire  and  smoke  at  the  end  of  Gotterdam- 
merung  the  abode  of  the  gods  goes  up.  Yet  the 
most  striking  of  all  the  fire  tableaux  of  Wagner 
is  the  finale  of  Die  Walkure,  with  Wotan  singing 
to  the  crisping  and  crackling  of  his  conjured  and 
sentinel  flames.  It  is  a  stirring  invocation  to 

344 


IN  PRAISE  OF  FIREWORKS 

Loki,  the  fire  god,  and  a  magnificent  stage  pic 
ture. 

But  all  this  is  an  art  of  the  foot-lights;  it 
is  cribbed,  cabined,  and  confined  between  a  few 
walls.  The  genuine  art  of  pyrotechny  must 
have  as  a  background  the  sky;  for  a  frame  the 
walls  of  heaven.  Its  chief  merit  lies  in  its  in 
ability  to  express  ideas,  above  all,  didactic  ideas. 
It  must  not  tell  a  story,  insinuate  a  moral,  or 
imitate  any  earthly  form.  It  is  the  ideal  art  of 
the  arabesque.  Attempts  at  portraiture  of  pop 
ular  men,  politicians  and  other  unimportant 
persons,  are  simple  burlesques,  unworthy  of  the 
serious-minded  fireworker.  His  patterns  must 
be  varied,  his  tintings  multifarious.  He  must 
have  the  courage  of  his  fiery  fugues,  and  the  con 
viction  that  if  all  other  arts  are  moribund,  his  is 
still  vital  and  capable  of  an  infinite  evolution. 
In  a  word,  the  pyrotechnist  should  have  the  eye 
of  a  painter,  the  imagination  of  a  poet,  the  de 
signing  brain  of  an  architect,  and  the  soul  of 
a  fanatic. 

With  his  soundless  traceries,  muted  music  of 
fire,  he  may  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  a  uni 
versal  art,  one  that  will  need  no  preliminary 
initiations,  one  immediately  understanded  of  the 
people.  While  the  sky  must  not  be  his  pulpit, 
he  may  nevertheless  inculcate  a  love  of  beauty 
with  his  multicoloured  aerial  panoramas.  Form 
and  hue,  pattern  and  emotional  meanings,  may 
all  enter  into  his  incandescent  compositions. 
Professor  Pain,  virtuoso  in  the  art,  delights  in 

345 


IN  PRAISE  OF  FIREWORKS 

showing  us  historic  happenings  in  a  coruscating 
pragmatic  blaze;  yet  we  believe  if  left  to  follow 
his  own  devices  this  firesmith  would  give  the 
world  a  nobler  style  of  art.  And  how  restful  is 
this  art  even  in  its  undeveloped  state.  The  eye 
is  gratified  without  tiring  the  brain;  there  are  no 
plots,  no  dramas  of  problems ;  no  rude  orchestra 
or  vocal  howlings  assault  the  ear  with  modern 
clangours.  You  simply  sit  back  and  let  the  pro 
fessor  wend  his  squibby  way,  and  then  you  go 
home  to  iridescent  dreams. 

I  do  not  exaggerate  when  as  a  regenerating 
influence  I  consider  pyrotechny  far  above  the 
teachings  of  Ibsen,  William  James,  Tolstoy,  and 
Richard  Strauss  —  who  should  have  been  a  fire 
worker  instead  of  a  musical  composer. 


346 


XIII 
A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 


PRAGMATISM  is  in  the  air.  The  magazines  give 
the  new  movement  a  prominent  place.  It  is 
discussed  on  mountain  and  at  the  sea-shore  as  if 
it  were  some  portentous  event  like  the  arrival 
within  our  atmosphere  of  a  threatening  comet 
or  the  advent  of  a  freshly  hatched  religion.  Per 
haps  some  day  it  may  become  a  religion.  The 
attractive  lectures  of  that  extraordinary  Profes 
sor  William  James,  the  growing  interest  in  the 
writings  of  Nietzsche,  the  books  of  Dewey  and 
Schiller  —  particularly  the  latter  thinker's  Hu 
manism  —  all  point  to  states  of  feeling  on  the  part 
of  our  reading  public  which  betoken  something 
of  genuine  import.  And  it  is  true  that  prag 
matism  offers  to  the  speculative  mind  plenty  of 
problems.  Its  ugly  title,  with  its  connotations 
of  self-conceit,  meddlesomeness,  and  bumptious 
ness,  is  misleading.  Professor  James  wittily 
calls  it  an  old  thing  with  a  new  name ;  in  a  phrase, 
old  wine  in  new  bottles.  But  your  true  prag- 
matist  is  the  reverse  of  the  dictionary  definition. 
He  is  as  indifferent  as  the  ocean  in  his  views  of 
the  universe;  a  latitudinarian,  compared  with 
whom  that  rapidly  vanishing  individual  the  ag- 

347 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

nostic  is  a  mugwump.  The  agnostic  hopelessly 
dropped  his  hands  before  the  riddles  of  life,  but 
the  pragmatist  does  not  indulge  in  such  a  useless 
gesture.  Like  Peer  Gynt,  he  "goes  round 
about";  evades  the  real  hard-and-fast  issues. 
He  knows  his  theory  to  be  good  waiting-ground, 
and  from  it  he  procrastinatingly  surveys  the 
cosmos  with  gentle  curiosity.  He  is  nothing  if 
not  tolerant,  all  things  to  all  men  and  all  faiths. 
He  is  too  sweet  to  be  true.  It  tickles  the 
vanity  of  the  man  of  the  multitude  who  thus 
believes  that  he  can  think  without  thinking. 
A  short  cut  to  Parnassus,  philosophy  made 
easy.  To  the  anxious  interrogator  of  spiritual 
uncertainties  he  says:  "Wait!  We  are  on 
the  wide  stream  of  consciousness.  What  may 
now  seem  to  you  inexplicable  may  be  clear  when 
we  drift  further  down."  They  do  drift.  The 
landscape  on  either  bank  of  the  river  changes 
continually.  See,  says  the  pragmatist,  such  is 
truth.  A  chameleon,  ever  changing.  My  truth 
may  not  be  your  truth.  As  there  are  so  many 
humans  on  the  globe,  so  are  there  as  many 
Truths.  Comforted,  the  anxious  one  may  go 
on  dry  land  to  rob,  kill,  or  outrage  if  his  con 
science  says  him  yea.  But  he  is  then  an  ex 
treme  case.  He  has  criminal  instincts.  With 
such  rude  souls  Professor  James  does  not  deal. 
Why  should  he?  But  —  it  may  be  pragmatism 
in  the  end. 

"The  true,  to  put  it  very  briefly,"  James  says 
in  his  first  lecture,  "is  only  the  expedient  in  our 

348 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

way  of  thinking,  just  as  the  right  is  only  the 
expedient  in  the  way  of  our  behaving."  That 
is,  a  truth  is  justified  if  its  consequences  are 
useful  to  you.  In  a  certain  sense  we  may  be 
pragmatists,  just  as  M.  Jourdain  spoke  prose  for 
a  long  time  without  knowing  it.  The  novelty  of 
the  idea  dates  back  to  the  hills,  before  Protag 
oras  had  discovered  that  man  is  the  measure  of 
all  things.  Professor  James  mentions  Aristotle 
as  an  early  pragmatist,  but  does  not  speak  of 
Thomas  Aquinas,  though  the  angelical  doctor 
" humanised"  Aristotle  for  the  Christian  world. 
Terence  has  been  pressed  into  service  with  his 
"Homo  sum,  humani  nihil  a  me  alienum  puto." 
Wasn't  St.  Paul  pragmatic  when  he  spoke  of 
faith  and  good  works?  Pragmatic  is  to  be  prac 
tical  —  its  Greek  root  so  signifies.  How  about 
Goethe  and  his  question:  "What  is  the  value  of 
this  to  me  now?"  Pure  pragmatism.  And  Re- 
nan  with  his  Pyrrhonism,  and  his  theory  of  a 
world  ever  in  the  process  of  creation,  or  re 
creation  — fieri  is  his  precise  word.  And  our 
egoistic  friend  Max  Stirner,  an  extreme  Hegelian, 
whose  motto  is  "My  truth  is  the  truth."  Are 
not  all  political  opportunists  pragmatists?  Pope 
Pius  X  was  a  pragmatist  when  he  denounced 
"Modernism,"  and  James  would  be  the  first  to 
acknowledge  him  as  such,  for  modern  thought, 
modern  science,  are  repugnant  to  the  Holy 
Father;  they  are  not  "practical"  truths  for 
him  —  knowing  as  he  does  the  ever-changing 
"truths"  of  science  (compare,  for  example,  the 

349 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

evolution  of  Lamarck  and  Darwin  with  the  evo 
lutionary  theories,  the  Transformism  of  Quinton, 
to-day).  Professor  James  declares  that  God  is 
not  a  "  gentleman."  Villiers  de  Flsle  Adam 
proves  him  a  pragmatist  in  his  ironical  Tribulat 
Bonhomet.  God  asks  of  Bonhomet:  "Quand 
jetterez-vous  le  masque?"  "Mais  apres  vous, 
Seigneur!"  responds  Bonhomet. 

Pragmatism,  then,  while  no  new  thing,  is 
nevertheless  propounded  as  a  theory  of  truth. 
Truth  means  agreement  with  reality,  and  all 
truths  must  be  valued  for  their  practical  conse 
quences.  Nature  abhors  an  absolute.  There  is 
no  absolute  in  knowledge  or  belief.  If  a  man 
says  that  he  is  hot  he  is  hot  for  himself  though 
the  thermometer  be  at  zero.  In  effect  Professor 
James  would  deny  the  absolute  of  the  thermom 
eter,  not  the  validity  of  the  man's  assertion  that 
he  is  hot.  All  idealism,  all  rationalism,  all  ideas 
based  on  an  absolute,  on  the  infinite,  are  like  the 
thermometer,  i.  e.,  they  are  relative,  though  they 
may  do  you  a  lot  of  good.  A  Turk,  a  Hebrew, 
an  atheist,  a  Christian,  may  be  sound  Pragma- 
tists.  Indeed,  there  is  nothing  so  hospitable  as 
pragmatism  —  which,  according  to  its  professors, 
is  not  a  philosophy  but  only  a  working  theory,  an 
attitude  of  utility,  a  method,  rather  than  a 
system;  a  species  of  sophistical  picklock  that  is 
to  open  up  all  the  metaphysical  banks  and  re 
veal  their  bankruptcy.  James  speaks  wittily 
of  Kant  "as  the  rarest  and  most  complicated 
of  all  the  bric-a-brac  museums"  —  that  Kant, 

350 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

who  is  the  greatest  moral  nihilist  among  mod 
ern  thinkers,  a  denier  compared  to  whom  Max 
Stirner  is  a  bubbling  well-spring  of  affirmations. 

But  man  has  been  called  a  metaphysical 
animal.  The  artistic  spider  that  spins  in  the 
dark  cells  of  every  thinker's  brain  is  already  at 
work  with  the  pragmatic  idea.  Its  originator, 
Professor  Charles  Sanders  Peirce  (in  1877  and 
1878  he  first  spread  the  good  tidings),  confesses 
that  his  child  got  away  from  him,  so  he  renamed 
it  Pragmaticism.  Schiller,  a  disciple  of  James, 
calls  his  variation  on  the  theme  Humanism  - 
also  a  very  old  title  and  something  quite  differ 
ent  once  upon  a  time. 

Other  days,  other  ways.  New  manners,  new 
modalities.  Professors  James  and  Dewey  are 
the  American  upholders  of  this  boiling  down  of 
Locke,  Mill,  Hume,  Bain;  in  Germany  such 
names  as  Mach,  Hertz,  Ostwald,  are  enlisted, 
and  in  Italy  Papini,  Prezolini,  and  Calderoni 
have  started  a  review  —  at  Florence  —  called 
Leonardo,  devoted  to  the  extension  of  the  idea  of 
Pragmatism  —  which  is  really  not  "Pragma 
tism"  but  a  congeries  of  pragmatic  ideas  and 
theories.  In  France  it  is  the  "Philosophy  of 
action"  and  has  attracted  a  number  of  bold 
spirits.  The  entire  movement  is  greatly  influ 
enced  by  Nietzsche.  Nor  need  we  be  surprised 
if  from  this  humble  if  arid  acorn  some  amazing 
trees  will  grow.  You  may  expel  metaphysics  by 
way  of  the  door,  yet  it  will  enter  through  the  win 
dow  or  come  down  the  chimney.  To  be  quite 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

frank,  pragmatism  is  old-fashioned  utilitarianism 
with  a  dollar  mark.  It  has  much  of  the  canny 
Yankee  in  its  ingenious  mechanism.  And  later 
it  may  develop  into  a  rule  of  conduct,  for  it 
aims  at  dealing  with  the  concrete,  at  giving 
metaphysical  "  truths"  a  new  content,  at  throw 
ing  overboard  the  entire  apparatus  of  meta 
physics  from  Kant  to  Schopenhauer.  Again  we 
beg  leave  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  these  things 
occurring,  and  James  would  probably  tell  us: 
You  are  quite  right.  Make  your  own  truths  in 
this  very  plastic  world  around  you,  which  is 
real,  as  it  is  your  own  creation.  If  not  prag 
matism,  then  something  else  practical. 

Upon  the  beach  of  life  lie  glistening  in  the 
sun  innumerable  gigantic  wrecks  and  shards  of 
philosophical  systems,  washed  up  by  the  tides 
of  thought  only  to  be  swallowed  in  the  tomb  of 
time.  The  pragmatists  point  to  these  antique 
remains,  once  vital,  now  obsolete,  and  exclaim: 
"Behold,  to  this  state  must  come  all  truths!" 
Ibsen  expressed  the  same  idea  when  he  said  that 
a  truth  usually  ages  after  its  twentieth  year. 
But  pragmatism,  not  being  a  system,  only  a  rov 
ing  comet  amid  the  constellations  of  philoso 
phers,  will,  it  is  asserted,  remain  eternally  young 
-  that  is,  if  some  giant  planet  does  not  drag  it 
within  its  orbit  and  incorporate  it  as  a  part  — 
a  very  small  part  —  of  its  own  system. 

In  sooth,  as  it  stands  now  in  its  nudity  there 
is  not  much  to  grasp.  It  is  a  thin  doctoral  thesis. 
The  nature  of  judgments,  most  important  of 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

propositions,  is  not  dealt  with  by  James.  Or, 
to  put  it  thus:  deny  the  perfections  of  the  judg 
ment,  and ,  a  priori,  you  impugn  the  truth  of  the 
system.  Deny  the  truth  of  the  system,  and,  d 
posteriori,  you  infer  the  weakness  of  the  judg 
ment.  Yet  the  consequences  of  judgment  are 
seen  in  conduct.  Pragmatism  is  not  a  theory  of 
truth  but  a  theory  of  what  it  is  expedient 
to  believe.  No  "categorical  imperatives"  for 
James,  only  expediency  —  you  remember  his 
major  definition:  "The  true  is  only  the  ex 
pedient  in  the  way  of  our  thinking."  Thus 
the  nature  of  belief  is  never  touched,  and  judg 
ment,  "the  real  problem  of  truth,"  is  left  in  the 
dark,  maintains  Mr.  Ralph  Hawtrey.  Professor 
James  calls  the  rationalists  "tender-minded" 
and  the  pragmatists  "tough-minded,"  i.  e.,  they 
do  not  fear  to  face  reality.  It  strikes  us  that 
the  above  crux  and  the  failure  of  the  pragmatists 
to  come  to  grips  with  it  prove  the  new  men 
"  tender, "  not  "  tough, "  minded.  A  truth  that 
is  only  good  as  a  means  and  not  in  itself  sets  us 
to  wondering  what  particular  kind  of  falsehood 
this  "truth"  must  be.  It  is  putting  the  cart 
before  the  horse.  Life,  if  lived  only  for  what 
we  get  out  of  it,  would  not  be  lived  out  by 
many  men.  Bread  we  can't  do  without;  but 
only  to  have  bread ?  We  suspect  pragma 
tism  to  be  labouring  in  the  mesh  of  muddled 
verbal  definitions. 

It  calls  itself  empirical  and  nominalistic,  as 
opposed  to  the  ancient  realism  and   the  new 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

rationalism.  Despite  protestations  to  the  con 
trary,  there  is  to  be  detected  upon  the  "new 
truth"  the  deadly  trail  of  eclecticism,  and  when 
the  pragmatic  palace  is  built  —  and  it  is  sure  to 
be  —  we  may  see  many  old  bricks  from  many  old 
systems  used  in  its  construction.  The  pragma- 
tist  is  neither  a  yes-sayer  nor  a  no-sayer  to  the 
universe.  He  is  a  looker-on,  despite  his  claims  to 
be  a  worker  with  viable  ideas.  His  is  a  critical, 
not  a  constructive,  attitude.  If  the  centuries  pre 
ceding  him  had  maintained  this  pose  of  indiffer 
ence  what  intellectual  values  would  have  been 
transmitted  us?  To  be  a  cheerful  sceptic  is  much 
easier  than  to  forge  the  thunderbolts  of  affirma 
tion  or  negation.  Moreover,  the  old  ideas,  even 
if  " abstract,"  " obsolete,"  mere  empty  frames 
without " concrete"  pictures,  were,  after  all,  defi 
nite  ideas  and  have  served  pragmatic  purposes. 
What  would  have  become  of  our  thinking  ap 
paratus  if  back  in  the  womb  of  Time  some  genius 
had  not  formulated  the  notions  of  Time  and 
Space?  Working  hypotheses,  if  not  realities. 
Better  the  bitter  thunder  of  Schopenhauer's  pes 
simism  than  this  limp,  waiting-for-something- 
to-be-proved  attitude.  Dynamic?  The  quality 
that  pragmatism  does  not  possess  is  the  dynamic 
element.  William  James  is  a  dynamic  writer,  as 
is  the  fantastic  Papini  —  who  is  more  poet  than 
pragmatist  —  but,  between  a  man  and  a  working 
system  of  conduct,  gulfs  may  intervene.  For  the 
young  pragmatism  will  always  mean:  "Nothing 
is  proved,  all  is  permitted."  And  though  Pro- 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

fessor  James  admits  a  belief  in  God  as  a  working 
hypothesis  this  hypothesis  would  not  long  work 
in  a  world  where  virtue  is  judged  only  by  its 
consequences  —  pleasant  or  unpleasant  to  each 
of  us,  as  the  case  may  be.  Pascal  saw  these 
things  clearly  when  he  told  the  incredulous  man 
that  it  didn't  matter  much  to  the  sceptic  whether 
there  was  a  God  or  annihilation  after  death,  as 
the  two  doctrines  were  equally  indifferent  to  him; 
what  mattered  very  much,  however,  were  the 
different  consequences  of  the  two  doctrines.  We 
suppose  for  this  speech  Pascal  will  be  called  a 
pragmatist.  So  are  we  in  this  case,  for  by  their 
consequences  we  shall  judge  the  " truths"  of  the 
pragmatists,  whether  " truths"  objective  or 
" truths"  newly  manufactured  for  special  oc 
casions. 

Curious  it  is  to  see  bobbing  up  again  that  once 
fiercely  hated  word  ''expediency,"  with  its  in 
evitable  corollary:  The  end  justifies  the  means. 
Has  the  Society  of  Jesus  captured  the  pragma 
tists?  will  be  asked  by  the  timid.  Yet  here  is  that 
same  terror-breeding  axiom,  so  sedulously  foisted 
upon  the  Jesuits  for  years,  emerging  from  ob 
scurity  and  actually  used  as  a  catchword  em 
broidered  upon  the  banners  of  the  pragmatists. 
Expediency!  The  end  justifies  the  means!  Is 
Truth  (capitalised)  a  chameleon  —  or  a  phcenix? 
Professor  James  in  one  of  his  lectures  on  The 
Notion  of  Truth  assured  us  that,  "  first,  you 
know,  a  new  theory  is  attacked  as  absurd;  then 
it  is  admitted  to  be  true  but  obvious  and  sig- 

355 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

nificant;  finally  it  is  seen  to  be  so  important  that 
its  adversaries  claim  that  they  themselves  dis 
covered  it."  We  plead  guilty  to  the  second  count, 
omitting  the  word  "significant."  Obvious  is  this 
pragmatism  with  its  "cash  values,"  its  vast 
Gradgrindlike  appetite  for  "facts,"  "reality," 
and  its  sophistical  "meliorism."  Its  "realities" 
are  those  of  the  midriff,  not  of  the  imagination. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  leave  the  soul  —  or  what  is 
called  the  "soul"  —  out  of  a  working  scheme  of 
life;  but  if  religion  is  "  the  poetry  of  the  poor"  it 
may  be  also  the  "reality"  of  the  rich  —  that  is, 
the  rich  in  imagination  and  feeling.  There  are 
large  claims  made  for  the  "humanity"  of  prag 
matism;  indeed,  James  includes  within  its  do 
main  all  earth  and  heaven  and  hell.  It  wel 
comes  with  open  arms  "the  will  to  believe,"  the 
religious  spirit.  But  what  special  call  is  there 
to  tell  those  who  seek  the  truth  that  it  doesn't 
much  matter  for  practical  purposes  what  the 
truth  is?  Here  is  your  invertebrate  attitude, 
notwithstanding  the  talk  of  "  reality."  We  know 
that  as  far  as  results  are  concerned  one  phi 
losophy  is  as  good  as  another.  To  say  "philos 
ophy"  is  only  to  sum  up  in  a  fatidical  phrase 
the  physiologic  states  of  the  particular  philos 
opher;  or,  as  M.  Louis  Thomas  wittily  puts  it, 
"  the  hazards  of  my  digestions."  After  all,  Plato 
was  platonic  and  Schopenhauer  the  first  Scho- 
penhauerian.  And,  judging  from  The  Isle  of 
Penguins,  M.  France  is  a  Gulliver  who  has  read 
Anatole  France,  and,  perhaps,  H.  G.  Wells. 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

Pragmatism  is  just  one  more  exemplar  of  meta 
physical  virtuosity  in  a  world  already  over 
burdened  with  metaphysics  and  the  common 
plague  of  mental  gymnastic.  From  pragmatism 
we  turn  with  relief  even  to  Tertullian  and  repeat 
after  him:  " Certum  est  quia  impossible  est." 


II 

JACOBEAN  ADVENTURES 

Almost  every  great  philosopher  has  been  an 
noyed  by  his  devil.  Of  this  history  has  assured 
us.  Each  according  to  his  temperament  has 
come  to  grips  with  his  household  demon.  If 
Satan  once  in  satanic  exuberance  threw  a  stone 
at  the  head  of  St.  Dominic,  did  not  Luther 
fling  an  inkstand  at  the  dark-skinned  gentle 
man,  thereby  wasting  his  temper,  good  ink,  and 
all  to  no  decorative  purpose,  though  the  spot  on 
the  wall  is  still  shown  to  pilgrims?  The  particular 
form  of  devil  that  entered  the  atelier  of  Cuvier 
was  of  the  familiar  bovine  type.  When  the 
naturalist  asked  him  what  he  wanted,  "I've 
come  to  swallow  you,'7  was  the  amiable  reply. 
"  Oh,  no,  you  haven't.  You  wear  horns  and  hoofs. 
You  are  granivorous,  not  carnivorous."  The 
evil  one  departed,  foiled  by  a  scientific  fact. 
Now  students  of  demonology  know  that  Satan 
Mekatrig  may  appear  disguised  as  a  maleficent 
idea.  The  latter  part  of  his  life  Ernest  Renan  de 
spised  a  devil  he  described  as  "  the  mania  of  cer- 

357 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

ti tude."  He  dearly  loved  a  concept  that  couldn't 
conceive.  Nature  abhors  an  absolute,  and  for 
Renan  the  world  process  was^m,  a  becoming,  a 
perpetual  re-creation.  Professor  William  James 
has  his  own  devil,  a  haunting  devil,  which  he  has 
neither  named  nor  summoned,  but  that  sits  by 
his  bedside  or  with  him  at  his  study  desk.  This 
bright  special  devil  is  Monism,  and  to  exorcise 
it,  to  banish  it  without  bell  or  candle  but  with 
book,  he  published  his  Hibbert  Lectures,  de 
livered  at  Manchester  College,  on  the  present 
situation  of  philosophy.  The  book  bears  the 
pleasing  title  A  Pluralistic  Universe.  It  is  the 
record  of  his  adventures  among  the  masterpieces 
of  metaphysics;  and  what  an  iconoclastic  cruise 
it  has  been  for  him! 

When  pragmatism  was  discussed  Mr.  Hawtrey 
criticised  the  doctrine  —  or  attitude,  or  whatever 
jelly-like  form  it  may  assume — thus:  The  nature 
of  judgments,  most  important  of  propositions, 
is  not  dealt  with  by  Professor  James.  Yet  the 
consequences  of  judgment  are  seen  in  conduct. 
Pragmatism  is  not  a  theory  of  truth,  but  a  theory 
of  what  it  is  expedient  to  believe.  "  Precisely 
so,"  Mr.  James  could  have  retorted;  "if  it  is 
expedient  for  you  not  to  believe  in  pragmatism 
as  a  working  system,  then  don't  attempt  to  do 
so."  This  advice  would  have  been  a  perfectly 
enunciated  expression  of  pragmatism.  We  con 
fess  we  do  not  find  him  any  the  less  pragmatist 
in  his  new  volume,  as  some  critics  have  as 
serted.  He  is  more  protean  than  ever;  but  then 

358 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

the  essence  of  pragmatism  is  to  be  protean. 
When  you  attempt  to  recall  the  colour  of  the 
mind  of  William  James  you  are  forced  to  think 
of  a  chameleon.  Running  fire,  he  slips  through 
your  ringers,  benignly  scorching  them.  The 
entire  temper  of  A  Pluralistic  Universe  is  critic 
ally  warlike.  He  invades  the  enemy's  country. 
Armed  with  the  club  of  pluralism,  he  attacks  the 
bastions  of  monism,  rationalism,  and  intellect- 
ualism.  For  the  seasoned  theologian,  says  a 
Roman  Catholic  theologian,  the  spectacle  must 
be  exhilarating.  That  old  ice-church,  the  strong 
hold  of  rationalism,  has  long  been  an  objective 
for  ecclesiastical  hot  shot.  To  see  a  philosopher 
of  the  James  eminence  shooting  the  latest-fan- 
gled  scientific  projectiles  at  the  common  enemy 
must  provoke  the  query  Quo  vadis?  What  next? 
Wohin?  That  Mr.  James  employs  for  hostile 
purposes  the  concepts  of  rationalism  Mr.  Paul 
Elmer  More  has  remarked;  but  the  philoso 
pher  had  forestalled  this  objection  in  his  note  to 
Lecture  Six.  Speaking  of  Bergson,  he  asks: 
"Does  the  author  not  reason  by  concepts  ex 
clusively  in  his  very  attempt  to  show  that  they 
can  give  no  insight?"  He  answers:  "What  he 
reaches  by  their  means  is  thus  only  a  new  prac 
tical  attitude."  Chi  non  istima,  men  stimato!  we 
might  add. 

Let  us  broach  the  Jacobean  arguments,  with 
one  intercalation.  The  enormous  power  of  vis 
ualising  a  fact,  thanks  to  the  author's  intel 
lect  and  literary  style,  makes  of  A  Pluralistic 

359 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

World  ambrosia  for  the  happy  many.  Without 
doubt,  beginning  with  Schopenhauer  and  down 
to  Nietzsche  and  James,  there  has  been  an  at 
tempt  to  batter  the  musty  walls  of  metaphysical 
verbiage.  Such  clarity  of  speech,  such  simple 
ways  of  putting  subtle  ideas  as  Mr.  James's  are 
rare  among  German  or  English  thinkers.  The 
French  have  hitherto  enjoyed  the  monopoly  in 
this  respect.  Indeed,  so  deft  is  the  verbal  vir 
tuosity  of  James  that  his  very  clearness  is  often 
deluding  and  might  become  for  a  man  of  less 
sincerity  a  temptation  to  indulge  in  sophistry; 
but  this,  we  feel  assured,  is  not  so.  Whatever 
essential  weaknesses  there  are  in  the  ideas  pre 
sented  by  our  philosopher  they  are  at  least  pre 
sented  with  the  ringing  tones  of  conviction.  Or 
can  a  man  be  sincere  and  a  sophist  at  the  same 
time? 

The  form  of  idealistic  thinking  that  postulates 
an  absolute  came  into  English  philosophy  by 
way  of  Germany.  "The  Rhine  has  flowed  into 
the  Thames/'  said  Professor  Henry  Jones;  "the 
stream  of  Germanic  idealism  has  been  diffused 
over  the  academical  world  of  Great  Britain. 
The  disaster  is  universal."  Ferrier,  J.  H.  Stir 
ling,  and  J.  H.  Green  are  to  be  thanked  for  this. 
James  thus  defines  the  difference  between  em 
piricism  and  rationalism:  "Reduced  to  their 
most  pregnant  difference,  empiricism  means  the 
habit  of  explaining  wholes  by  parts,  and  ration 
alism  means  the  habit  of  explaining  parts  by 
wholes.  Rationalism  thus  preserves  affinities 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

with  monism,  since  wholeness  goes  with  union, 
while  empiricism  inclines  to  pluralistic  views. 
No  philosophy  can  ever  be  anything  but  a  sum 
mary  sketch,  a  picture  of  the  world  in  abridg 
ment,  a  foreshortened  bird's-eye  view  of  the  per 
spective  of  events;  and  the  first  thing  to  notice 
is  this,  that  the  only  material  we  have  at  our  dis 
posal  for  making  a  picture  of  the  whole  world 
is  supplied  by  the  various  portions  of  that  world 
of  which  wre  have  already  had  experience.  We 
can  invent  no  new  forms  of  conception  applica 
ble  to  the  whole  exclusively  and  not  suggested 
originally  by  the  parts.  .  .  .  Let  me  repeat  once 
more  that  a  man's  vision  is  the  great  fact  about 
him  (without  vision  the  people  perish).  Who 
cares  for  Carlyle's  reasons,  or  Schopenhauer's  or 
Spencer's?  A  philosophy  is  the  expression  of  a 
man's  intimate  character,  and  all  definitions  of 
the  universe  are  but  the  deliberately  adopted 
reactions  of  human  characters  upon  it."  James 
deliberately  renounces  the  metaphysical  ap 
paratus  and  casts  logic  to  the  dogs.  He  must 
of  necessity  approve  of  Jowett's  "Logic  is  neither 
an  art  nor  a  science,  but  a  dodge,"  quoted  by 
Leslie  Stephen;  but  when  logic  goes  out  at  the 
door,  doesn't  faith  come  in  through  the  window? 
With  the  dualistic  theism  of  Christianity  he 
does  not  concern  himself.  "  Theological  ma 
chinery"  is  not  within  the  scope  of  these  lectures. 
To  demolish  the  monistic  form  of  pantheism, 
that  pantheism  developed  by  Spinoza,  which  en 
visages  God  as  One,  as  the  Absolute,  is  the  de- 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

light  of  our  thinker.  In  reality  we  are  all  prag- 
matists,  all  pluralists  without  knowing  it  until 
now.  On  the  stage  of  this  theatre  of  ideas  the 
Cambridge  master  manipulates  the  concept  pup 
pets,  the  "All-form"  and  the  "Each-form"  and 
the  duel  is  in  this  dramatist's  hands  very  ex 
citing.  It  is  not  merely  a  battle  of  conjunctions, 
of  the  qua  and  quatenus,  the  "as"  and  the  "as 
such";  but  a  wholesale  massacre  of  "ideas," 
Platonic  and  their  congeners.  It  is  a  cheerful 
spectacle  to  witness  an  intellectual  descendant 
of  Kant,  that  grand  old  nihilist  of  Konigsberg, 
blow  skyward  with  his  pluralistic  dynamite  the 
lofty  structure  which  once  housed  the  "Ding  an 
sick"  and  those  fat,  toddling  Categorical  Im 
peratives.  Professor  James  is  the  one  philo 
sophic  showman  of  his  day  who  gives  you  the 
worth  of  your  money. 

He  does  not  believe  in  an  objective  Truth 
with  a  capital  —  there  are  also  the  "lower  case" 
truths  to  be  taken  into  consideration.  While  he 
hints  not  at  having  heard  Ibsen's  statement  that 
all  truths  sicken  and  die  about  every  twenty 
years,  it  is  not  difficult  to  conjure  our  chief  prag- 
matist  as  chuckling  over  the  notion.  Pyrrho 
was  philosophically  begot  by  Anaxarchus,  and 
Pyrrho  in  turn  begat  pyrrhonism,  which  begat 
the  modern  brood  of  intellectual  deniers,  Kant 
and  Hegel  at  their  head.  In  so  far  as  relates 
to  monism,  Professor  James  is  as  profound  a 
doubter  as  Pyrrho.  He  would  gladly  extirpate 
the  roots  of  this  system,  which  builds  from  above 

362 


A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

downward.  In  a  suggestive  study,  L'Absolu,  by 
L.  Dugas  of  Paris,  the  absolute  is  studied  as  a 
pathologic  variation  of  sentiment.  "L'absolu- 
tisme,  sous  toutes  ses  formes,  implique  contra 
diction;  il  vise  un  but  et  en  atteint  un  autre," 
asserts  the  French  thinker. 

"The  pluralistic  world,"  continues  James,  "is 
thus  more  like  a  federal  republic  than  like  an 
empire  or  a  kingdom."  Monism,  on  the  other 
hand,  believes  in  the  block  universe,  in  a  time 
less,  changeless  condition;  "all  things  interpene 
trate  and  telescope  together  in  the  great  total 
conflux."  Philosophy,  which  is  a  kind  of  phoenix 
in  its  power  of  emerging  from  its  own  ashes,  al 
ways  reflects  the  Time  Spirit.  Formerly  abso 
lute  and  monarchical,  it  is  now  democratic,  even 
socialistic.  Pluralism  appeals  to  Socialists. 
Only  a  few  years  ago  J.  H.  Rosny  the  elder,  the 
novelist  and  social  philosopher,  wrote  a  book 
called  Le  Pluralisme,  the  first  chapter  of  which, 
Continuity  and  Change,  appeared  in  La  Re- 
iiue  du  Mois.  Pluralism  and  pragmatism  have 
been  in  the  air  since  Ernest  Mach  and  Richard 
Avenarius  published  their  important  treatises. 
Francis  Herbert  Bradley  of  Oxford,  with  his  Ap 
pearance  and  Reality,  is  the  man  upon  whom 
James  trains  his  heaviest  artillery.  Josiah  Royce 
is  handled  in  A  Pluralistic  Universe  more  gently 
than  in  Pragmatism.  We  still  hear  of  the  "tough- 
minded"  and  the  "tender-minded,"  and  while 
transcendentalism  (oh,  souvenir  of  Massachu 
setts!)  is  pronounced  "thin,"  pluralism  is  de- 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

scribed  as  "  thick."  As  much  as  he  dares  Pro 
fessor  James  avoids  the  conceptual  jargon  of  the 
schools.  His  analogies,  which  are  legion,  are 
formed  from  the  clay  of  every-day  imagery.  The 
immanence  of  god  in  the  universe  (lower  case 
god)  he  admits,  but  pronounces  that  god  finite, 
not  an  All-form.  Monism  is  "  steep  and  brit 
tle" —  this  for  the  benefit  of  Oxford.  He  has 
named  his  empiricism  Radical  Empiricism  to  dis 
tinguish  it  from  the  antique  atomistic  form. 
After  that  wonderful  book,  The  Varieties  of  Re 
ligious  Experience,  we  are  not  surprised  to  hear 
Mr.  James  discussing  the  phenomenon  of  psy 
chic  research  —  "I  myself  firmly  believe  that 
most  of  these  phenomena  are  rooted  in  reality." 

The  truth  is  that  titles  such  as  Monism,  Ideal 
ism,  and  Pragmatism  belong  to  the  category  of 
Lewis  Carroll's  portmanteau  words,  words  into 
which  can  be  packed  many  meanings.  Mr.  More 
has  acutely  pointed  out  that  "in  denouncing 
Platonism  as  the  type  and  source  of  rationalistic 
metaphysics  he  [James]  had  in  mind  not  the 
Greek  Plato  but  a  Plato  viewed  through  Teu 
tonic  spectacles."  This  is  well  put.  The  world 
of  thought  is  not  yet  through  with  Plato,  Mr. 
James  naturally  included.  The  terrain  of  men 
tal  vision  would  be  terribly  narrowed  without  the 
Greek. 

Two  interesting  chapters  are  devoted,  one  to 
Fechner  and  his  animism,  the  other  to  Henri 
Bergson,  that  French  philosopher  who  has  at 
tacked  the  very  ramparts  of  intellectualism. 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

Read  the  paragraphs  in  which  are  set  forth  the 
impotence  of  intellectualistic  logic  to  define  a 
universe  where  change  is  continuous  and  what 
really  exists  is  not  things  made,  but  things  in  the 
making :  Renan  and  his  fieri  again  newly  instru 
mented  by  a  brilliant  Berlioz  of  philosophy;  also 
Heraclitus  with  his  fire  and  flux.  While  Pro 
fessor  James  deprecates  the  tendency  among  the 
younger  men  to  depreciate  the  originality  of  our 
latter-day  philosophies,  there  is  no  gainsaying 
the  fact  that  the  massive  wheel  of  the  World  Idea 
revolves  and  the  systems  of  yesterday  become 
the  systems  of  to-morrow.  Perhaps  this  is  the 
real  Eternal  Recurrence  of  Nietzsche  —  that 
Nietzsche  who  has  been  the  greatest  dissolvent 
in  German  philosophic  values  since  Kant. 

Let  us  be  grateful  to  the  memory  of  the  late 
William  James  for  his  large,  lucid,  friendly  book ; 
for  his  brave  endeavour  to  establish  the  continu 
ity  of  experience.  He  has  worked  to  humanise 
rationalism,  to  thaw  the  frozen  concept  absolute. 
If  he  had  cared  to  he  might  have  described  mo 
nism  as  an  orchestra  with  a  violin  solo  performer, 
making  its  many  members  subordinate  to  the 
All-form;  while  the  pluralistic  orchestra,  each 
and  every  musician  playing  in  harmony,  would 
typify  the  Each-form.  Yet  despite  his  sympathy 
with  "pan-psychism"  and  certain  manifestations 
of  "superhuman  consciousness,"  no  new  Barbey 
d'Aurevilly  would  have  ever  dared  to  a,dvise 
William  James  —  as  the  old  French  one  did 
Baudelaire  and  later  Huysmans  —  either  to 

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A  PHILOSOPHY  FOR  PHILISTINES 

blow  out  his  brains  or  sink  at  the  foot  of  the 
Cross  and  worship.  Faith  being  the  Fourth 
Dimension  of  the  human  intellect,  the  Cam 
bridge  professor  dismisses  it  under  the  rubric 
of  "  Over-belief. "  Yet  mysticism  mightily  rages 
down  Boston  way. 


XIV 

THE  PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN 
PHILOSOPHY 


ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  in  an  essay  on  style, 
charming  notwithstanding  its  discussion  of  tech 
nical  elements,  describes  a  conjuror  juggling  first 
with  two,  then  three,  finally  four  oranges,  keep 
ing  them  all  aloft  with  seemingly  small  effort. 
Stevenson  employed  this  image  to  explain  cer 
tain  qualities  of  literature.  After  rereading  the 
books  of  Henri  Bergson,  in  the  admirable  Eng 
lish  translation,  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  the 
conjuror  spinning  his  four  oranges  in  mid-air,  so 
deftly  does  the  French  philosopher  keep  in  mo 
tion  his  images,  with  a  leitmotiv  which  he  has 
named  the  elan  vital,  the  vital  impulse.  It  is 
no  mere  coincidence  that  in  every  successful  phi 
losophy  there  may  be  found  a  boldly  coined  image 
which  serves  not  only  to  stamp  the  entire  system, 
but  also  as  a  handy  catchword  for  its  disciples. 
We  know  that  there  is  much  more  in  Kant  than 
his  Ding  an  Sich,  the  famous  Thing-in-itself ;  yet 
shorn  of  that  phrase  the  Kantian  forces  would  no 
longer  be  as  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners. 
Hegel,  that  old  cloud-compeller,  the  Jupiter  Plu- 

367 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

vius  of  metaphysics,  for  what  would  he  stand 
if  not  for  his  Absolute  and  his  theory  of  Nega 
tives;  yet  they  are  not  altogether  Hegelianism. 
And  Schopenhauer,  whose  Will-to-Live  image 
brought  his  philosophy  safely  into  port  through 
a  muddy  sea  of  pessimism;  or  Comte  and  his 
Positivism,  the  scepticism  of  Renan,  the  agnos 
ticism  of  Spencer,  or  the  foggy  Unconscious  of 
the  Berlin  thinker,  Hartmann  —  each  of  these 
schemes  for  a  new  Weltanschauung  has  as  a  sign, 
a  symbol,  an  oriflamme,  an  image  that  sticks 
to  the  memory  long  after  the  main  lines  of  the 
various  philosophical  ideas  are  forgotten.  A 
philosopher  is  often  doubled  by  a  poet  as  an 
image-maker.  And  many  sport  Siegfried's  magic 
Tarnhelm,  that  not  only  makes  them  quite  in 
visible,  but  invisible  too  their  thought. 

Now  a  happy  image  captivates.  When  the 
poet  Nietzsche  declared  that  the  gods  were  dead 
in  the  firmament,  the  world  was  not  particu 
larly  shocked,  but  much  more  interested  when 
he  forged  his  significant  phrase,  Will-to-Power. 
Henri  Bergson  is  a  man  with  exceptional  liter 
ary  gifts.  He  has  an  ingratiating  manner  of  say 
ing  things,  of  weaving  them  into  golden  loops  of 
prose.  As  a  lecturer  he  woos  the  ear  with  the 
rhythm  of  his  musical  cadences.  How  persua 
sively,  yet  how  calmly  he  juggles  his  orange- 
concepts,  his  Vital  Impulse,  his  Intuition,  his 
Instinct,  his  Life  pictured  as  a  swiftly  flowing 
stream,  his  Time  as  a  stuff  both  resistant  and 
substantial,  with  his  Creative  Evolution.  But, 
368 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

who  knows,  perhaps  the  image  that  will  make  his 
philosophy  unforgetable  is  his  comparison  of  hu 
man  consciousness  with  the  mechanism  of  the 
cinematograph.  He  contrives  to  make  a  definite 
and  logical  pattern  out  of  his  theoretic  oranges 
'and  literally  in  the  air.  I  recall  a  lecture  of  his 
at  the  College  de  France,  though  the  meaning  of 
his  talk  has  quite  escaped  my  memory  because  I 
was  studying  the  personality  of  the  man. 

The  Chinese  have  a  saying  that  an  image- 
maker  never  worships  idols.  Bergson  is  a  mighty 
maker  of  images,  nevertheless  his  sincerity,  his 
faith,  is  unquestionable.  He  is  intensely  in  earn 
est,  one  would  say  passionately,  if  it  were  not  too 
strong  a  word  for  a  thinker  whose  bearing  and 
gestures  betray  perfect  equipoise.  He  is  bald, 
with  a  beaver-like  brow,  the  brow  of  a  builder 
born;  his  nose  is  slightly  predacious,  his  features 
cameo-like,  his  deep-set  eyes  are  dark,  the  eyes 
of  an  oracle  though  there  is  nothing  of  the  pon 
tifical  in  his  attitude  toward  his  audience.  A 
modest  man,  because  he  knows  so  much,  Berg- 
son  is  more  of  the  petit-mattre,  the  diplomat,  even 
the  academician,  than  the  popular  notion  that  all 
philosophers  are  bearded  old  men,  their  eyes 
purging  amber  and  plum-tree  gum.  Alert,  even 
vivacious,  M.  Bergson  is  yet  self -composed,  far 
from  a  dreamer,  and  while  he  shows  his  Oriental 
stemming,  he  is  less  Jewish-looking  than  Anatole 
France.  (It  is  said  that  Celtic  blood  flows  in  his 
veins  as  well  as  Semitic.)  There  is  an  ecclesi 
astical  suggestion;  you  look  for  the  soutane.  As 

369 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

he  spoke  in  that  legato  fashion  of  his,  so  unlike 
the  average  French  orator,  I  thought  of  him  as  a 
Jewish  Renan,  a  master-sophist,  more  dogmatic 
than  the  author  of  the  Vie  de  Jesus  —  himself  a 
Hebraicised  thinker  —  and  one  not  averse  from 
the  "mania  of  certitude,"  which  his  master  did 
so  abhor. 

And  as  Bergson's  closely  linked  argument 
flowed  on  the  image  of  his  rushing  river  of  ap 
perception  arose  in  my  mind.  What  a  wealth 
of  examples.  And  what  a  picture-maker.  What 
magic  there  is  in  these  phrases:  "II  s'en  faut 
que  toutes  nos  idees  s'incorporent  a  la  masse  de 
nos  etats  de  conscience.  Beaucoup  flottent  a  la 
surface,  comme  des  feuilles  mortes  sur  1'eau 
d'un  etang."  One  is  instantly  conscious  of  that 
pool  upon  whose  languid  surface  the  dead  leaves 
float  and  in  a  flash  you  feel  that  our  half-ex 
pressed  or  discarded  states  of  consciousness  are 
as  "dead  leaves"  that  idly  drift  in  the  back 
waters  of  our  being.  Throughout  his  various 
books  such  imagery  is  not  infrequent.  What  if 
his  elan  vital  be  but  another  "vital  lie,"  of  the 
kind  Ibsen  believed  so  necessary  to  our  happi 
ness,  that  "lie"  which  the  brilliant  and  origi 
nal  thinker  Jules  de  Gualtier  has  erected  into  a 
philosophical  system  he  calls  "Le  Bovaryisme" 
—  the  tendency  of  humanity  to  appear  other 
than  it  is.  People  like  to  be  told  they  are 
"free";  that  life  is  a  spontaneous  outburst  of 
optimism;  that  the  intellect  is  not  the  chief  of 
the  human  organism,  the  brain  only  being  the 

370 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

telephonic  " central";  that  Intuition  is  superior 
to  cerebration,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  gorgeous 
bric-a-brac  of  this  Parisian  jeweller  in  philo 
sophic  phrases.  But  he  has  only  set  up  one  more 
conceptual  idol  in  the  metaphysical  pantheon 
—  the  idol  of  Time,  so  long  neglected  for  its 
fellow-fetish,  Space.  Time  is  an  Absolute  for 
Bergson,  who  otherwise  detests  the  Absolute, 
even  insinuating  that  Nature  abhors  an  Abso 
lute.  Time  is  the  idee  mere  of  his  work.  It  is 
also  his  one  noteworthy  contribution  to  contem 
porary  thought.  It's  magnificent,  but  it's  meta 
physics.  And  it  always  will  be  metaphysics  — 
which  if  expelled  from  the  door  comes  down  the 
chimney.  Paul  Bourget  says  somewhere:  "On 
revient  tou jours  de  ses  voyages  d'oubli,"  and  it 
is  difficult  to  escape  the  witchery  of  Bergson's 
adventures  in  the  caves  of  the  thought-idols. 
We  are  reminded  of  those  old  fantoccini  hoary 
with  age  —  Time  and  Space  and  Causality,  or 
the  Ego  and  the  Non-Ego,  all  capitalised  and  all 
recalling  the  thrill  metaphysical  of  our  youth. 
As  William  James  writes:  "conjunctions,  prep 
ositions,  and  adverbs  play  indeed  a  vital  part  in 
all  philosophies;  and  in  contemporary  idealism 
the  words  'as '  and  '  qua '  bear  the  burden  of  rec 
onciling  metaphysical  unity  with  phenomenal 
diversity."  Bergson  plays  with  his  dialectic  as 
does  the  Playboy  of  the  Western  World  with  his 
competitors.  Not  precisely  a  "vicious"  circle  of 
reasoning  is  his;  rather  let  us  say,  in  medical  par 
lance,  a  "benign"  circle;  which  simply  means 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

that  the  elan  vital  is  life  because  it's  lively.  All 
metaphysicians  are  mythomaniacs,  though  their 
myths  are  as  a  rule  more  verbalistic  than  concep 
tual.  However,  Bergson  is  not  altogether  the 
victim  of  his  own  verbal  virtuosity;  the  faulty 
method  of  appraising  him  is  to  blame.  He  has 
been  adjudged  an  absolutely  original  thinker. 
He  is  not;  indeed,  the  poet  and  myth-maker  that 
is  iii  him  runs  a  close  second  with  his  metaphysic. 
All  said  and  done,  he  is  as  much  of  an  idealist  as 
the  next  one,  and  to  alter  good  old  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  he  sees  men  not  as  trees,  walking,  but 
as  images,  flowing;  and  he  also  declares  that 
"  the  mechanism  of  our  ordinary  knowledge  is  of 
a  cinema tographical  kind."  Truly,  a  " mechan 
istic"  image! 

For  the  rest,  Henri  Bergson  is  a  hard-working 
professor,  born  at  Paris,  October  18,  1859.  He 
entered  the  Ecole  Normale  in  1878,  took  his 
degree  1881,  and  was  made  doctor  in  letters  1889. 
Since  1900  he  has  been  professor  at  the  College 
de  France,  and  in  1901  became  a  member  of  the 
Institute  on  his  election  to  the  Academic  des 
Sciences  morales  et  politiques.  His  Essai  sur 
les  donnees  immediates  de  la  conscience  (Paris, 
1889),  translated  into  English  as  Time  and  Free 
Will,  is  in  our  opinion  the  most  valuable  of  his 
works,  containing,  as  it  does,  the  matrix  of  his 
ideas  on  Time  and  written  in  a  more  austere 
style  than  his  better-known  works.  Matter  and 
Memory  followed  (in  1896),  with,  in  1907,  the 
favourite  L'Evolution  Creatrice  (Creative  Evolu- 

372 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

tion).  The  success  of  his  writings  has  been 
universal,  and  in  the  English-speaking  world 
largely  due  to  the  praise  of  the  late  William 
James  —  to  my  way  of  thinking  a  profounder 
philosopher  than  Bergson,  and  the  possessor  of 
a  simpler  and  more  searching  rhetoric. 

Mankind  longs  for  a  definite  "yes"  or  "no" 
in  answer  to  the  eternal  enigmas,  and  Berg- 
son  is  a  yes-sayer.  He  tells  us  in  his  supple 
prose  that  we  need  not  be  determinists  or  be 
lievers  in  the  automaton  theory,  that  life  is  con 
tinually  creative,  that  we  are  in  our  individual 
way  gods  fashioning  our  own  destinies,  and 
much  more  that  suspiciously  sounds  like  old- 
fashioned  teleological  arguments.  And  in  our 
century,  "famous  for  its  incoherences,"  this 
"spiritualisme  en  spirale"  of  Bergson,  as  Remy 
de  Gourmont  wittily  puts  it,  has  attracted  the 
amateur  philosopher  as  well  as  the  idle  of  in 
tellect,  cultured  women,  the  crowd  without 
spiritual  ballast,  the  whole  flock  of  mystic,  emo 
tional,  artistic,  and  semi-religious  folk  that 
are  seeking  for  the  unique  sign,  the  objective 
frame,  the  message  from  Beyond.  Bergson  is 
their  pet  planet  for  the  moment  that  Zarathustra 
speaks  of:  "Between  two  seas,  between  what  is 
past  and  what  is  to  come."  Mysticism,  with  a 
nuance  of  sentimentality,  has  poked  its  nose  once 
more  into  the  crib  of  philosophy,  demanding  its 
share  of  flattery  and  sustenance. 


373 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 


II 

Imperial-minded  Goethe  reserved  for  philoso 
phy  but  a  small  province  in  his  vast  intellectual 
kingdom.  He  loathed  "  thinking  about  thought/' 
and  made  Mephisto  tell  the  scholar:  "Grau, 
teurer  Freund,  ist  alle  Theorie, "  though  he  did 
not  fail  to  study  Spinoza  his  life  long.  Yet  his 
spinning  spirit  sings  to  Faust:  "So  schaff  ich  am 
sausenden  Webstuhl  der  Zeit  und  wirke  der 
Gottheit  lebendiges  Kleid."  That  living  garment 
of  the  deity  is  composed  of  Time  and  Space  — 
and  as  many  categorical  imperatives  as  the  in 
genuity  of  philosophers  can  invent.  Those  are 
the  convenient  —  and  fictive  —  forms  by  which 
we  apprehend  the  sensuous  universe.  Bergson 
lays  the  stress  on  Time  as  the  more  important 
factor  in  the  understanding  of  life.  Too  long  has 
the  world  been  regarded  through  spatial  spec 
tacles;  science  recognises  Space  more  than  Time. 
But  Time  is  not  abstract,  declares  Bergson,  it  is 
concrete,  real.  He  says:  "My  mental  state  as 
it  advances  on  the  road  of  time,  is  continually 
swelling  with  the  duration  which  it  accumulates: 
it  goes  on  increasing  —  rolling  upon  itself,  as  a 
snowball  on  the  snow.  It  is  a  mistake  to  tie  to 
gether  our  conscious  states  as  manifestations  ot 
some  ego.  Time  is  all  that  connects  them;  in 
deed,  they  are  time.  As  regards  the  psychical 
life  unfolding  beneath  the  symbols  which  con 
ceal  it,  we  may  readily  perceive  that  time  is  just 

374 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

the  stuff  it  is  made  of.  ...  There  is,  moreover, 
no  stuff  more  resistant  nor  more  substantial." 

No  denial  here  of  objective  reality;  all  is 
solidly  concrete  in  a  concrete  world,  far  different 
from  the  " timeless  block  universe"  of  the  abso 
lutists.  Time  is  a  living  thing.  The  original  im 
petus  of  life  is  the  fundamental  cause  of  varia 
tions.  This  impetus  is  conscious.  Its  vital 
matter  is  the  impediment,  and  its  collision  with 
the  living  stream,  the  resistance  overcome, 
causes  creation.  Wherever  this  flows  it  organises 
matter.  The  greater  the  resistance,  the  more 
complex  the  resulting  organism.  Evolution  is 
continually  creative.  It  is  now  and  everywhere. 
"Life  seems  to  have  succeeded  in  this  by  dint  of 
humility,  by  making  itself  very  small  and  very 
insinuating,  bending  to  physical  and  chemical 
forces,  consenting  even  to  go  part  of  the  way  with 
them."  Life  at  the  outset  —  but  was  there  ever 
a  beginning,  M.  Bergson,  you  who  so  dislike  the 
idea  of  finalism?  —  was  "possessed  of  the  tre 
mendous  internal  push  that  was  destined  to  raise 
them  —  specks  of  protoplasm  —  even  to  the 
highest  forms  of  life."  The  opponents  of  our 
philosopher  contend  that  while  his  erudition  is 
undeniable  his  inferences  from  facts  observed 
are  faulty;  that  his  employment  of  analogies  is 
specious  —  what  have  a  snowball  and  Time  in 
common?  Snow  accumulates  while  rolling,  but 
does  Time?  Furthermore,  he  too  often  sets  up  a 
metaphysical  man  of  straw  so  as  to  overturn  it 
and  triumphantly  conclude  that  because  he  up- 

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sets  one  theory  his  own  is  necessarily  truthful. 
Which  statement  cannot  be  contravened.  Berg- 
son  has  mastered  much  science  and  presses  it 
into  the  service  of  his  theories.  But  he  has  not 
proved  his  case  any  more  than,  say,  Biichner 
with  his  Kraft  und  Stoff.  What  is  really  the 
difference  between  Bergson  and  Biichner?  The 
latter  is  the  apostle  of  Matter  and  Force.  More 
metaphysics,  as  metaphysical  as  the  Becoming 
(which  suggests  Renan's  Fieri]  of  Bergson.  All 
such  phrases  are  symbols  of  la  bas  that  we  shall 
never  know  —  from  the  lips  of  philosophers. 

In  Matter  and  Memory  he  writes:  "Truth 
no  longer  represents  our  past  to  us,  it  acts  it." 
(Italics  are  his.)  "  Itself  an  image,  the  body  can 
not  store  up  images;  and  this  is  why  it  is  a 
chimerical  enterprise  to  seek  to  localise  past  or 
even  present  perceptions  in  the  brain;  they  are 
not  in  it;  it  is  the  brain  that  is  in  them.  .  .  . 
My  past  gnaws  into  the  present."  Isn't  this 
mediaeval  scholasticism  redimvus!  All  considera 
tion  of  Free-Will  must  be  considered  in  Time 
not  Space.  "  Can  time,"  he  asks,  "be  adequately 
represented  by  space?  To  which  we  answer, 
Yes,  if  you  are  dealing  with  time  flown;  No,  if 
you  speak  of  time  flowing  ...  all  the  difficul 
ties  of  the  problem  and  the  problem  itself  arise 
from  the  desire  to  endow  duration  with  the  same 
attributes  as  extensity,  to  interpret  a  succession 
by  a  simultaneity,  and  to  express  the  idea  of  free 
dom  in  a  language  into  which  it  is  obviously  un 
translatable."  We  prefer  to  make  these  quota- 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

tions  rather  than  risk  blurring  the  brilliancy  and 
originality  of  the  original  thought  by  trans 
position.  Bergson  is  obsessed  by  the  idea  of  a 
temporal,  not  a  spatial,  universe.  Old  Father 
Time  is  in  the  saddle  again  after  being  so  long 
deposed  by  the  Critique  of  Kant.  The  image  of 
a  focal  point,  our  normal  consciousness,  imper 
ceptible,  shading  into  a  fringe  at  the  periphery 
is  arresting,  for  it  is  that  " fringe"  from  which 
we  draw,  as  from  a  reservoir  —  never  mind 
the  mixed  metaphor  —  our  vision  of  life.  Con 
sciousness,  he  asserts,  is  almost  independent  of 
cerebral  structure.  He  has  been  challenged  to 
offer  proofs  of  this  existence  apart  from  cere 
bral  structure.  His  Time  is  a  clock-face  that  is 
always  pointing  to  the  high  noon  of  eternity. 
Real  Bergsonism  is  cosmic  rhythm.  He  has  in 
this  respect  the  innocence  of  the  ear,  yet  he  knows 
that  no  two  clocks  ever  strike  simultaneously. 
The  new  mysticism  is  here.  The  subconscious  as 
a  reservoir  for  the  eternal  certitudes  is  not  miss 
ing,  but  the  old  verbal  counters  are  used  in  the 
interest  of  a  new  obscurantism.  He  seriously 
subordinates  the  intellect  to  a  minor  role  in  his 
doctrine  of  Instinct;  the  intellectual  operations 
are  of  less  value  than  Intuition  or  Sympathy; 
yet  he  rather  illogically  objects  to  the  agnosti 
cism  of  Huxley  —  that  humble  student  of  truth 
revealed  by  science.  The  "new"  theory  of  Free- 
Will  —  which  Bergson  handles  rather  gingerly  — 
as  a  concomitant  of  his  Vital  Impulse,  is,  frankly 
speaking,  a  more  terrifying  metaphysical  mon- 

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ster  than  the  old-fashioned  and  elaborately  em 
bellished  Determinism.  We  wonder  what  Hart- 
mann  would  say  to  the  subtle  recreation  of  his 
Unconscious  in  the  " Fringe"  theory  of  Bergson! 
Or,  Professor  Miinsterberg!  Curiously  enough, 
with  all  his  assumption  of  libertarianism,  Berg- 
son's  human  is  much  more  of  an  automaton  than 
the  man  of  the  Cartesian  formula. 

He  doesn't  subscribe  to  Rene  Quin ton's  in 
genious  contention  that  birds  followed  verte 
brates  in  the  procession  of  evolutionary  existence 
on  our  globe;  nevertheless  he  declares  the  in 
stinct  of  bees  and  ants  as  actually  superior  to 
human  intelligence  when  interpreting  the  mean 
ing  of  "life"  to  human  intelligence.  With  all  his 
depreciation  of  the  intellect  and  his  charming 
plaidoyer  for  the  intuitive  process  —  whatever 
that  precisely  means!  —  Bergson  is  the  most 
signal  example  of  rampant  "intellectualism"  — 
mollified  by  romantic  rhetoric  —  that  has  put 
pen  to  paper  during  the  past  quarter  of  a  century. 
But  the  seeming  pellucidity  of  Bergson's  style  is 
often  dangerously  misleading;  his  ideas  are  not 
always  pellucid;  indeed,  there  are  phantasms 
in  this  much-vaunted  style  with  its  shining 
photosphere,  and  its  formidable  shadows,  in 
which  lurk  all  sorts  of  metaphysical  hobgoblins; 
the  Boyg  of  Ibsen  is  there,  the  old  Nominalism 
and  the  "Buffoon  of  the  new  Eternities,"  and  a 
little  rose-water  —  the  Bergson  metaphysic  is 
not  lacking  in  perfume;  that  is  why  his  philos 
ophy  is  allied  to  feminism,  with  its  sympathetic 

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divinations  and  intuitive  reactions.  Sensual 
mathematics  all  this,  and  an  Icarus-like  attempt 
to  fly  into  the  Fourth  Dimension  of  Space.  An 
excursion  to  Laputa,  there  to  interview  with  its 
philosophers  or  the  Struldbrugs  of  Swift,  might 
produce  more  topsy-turvy  ideation  than  Berg- 
sonism,  but  why  should  we  go  further? 

11  We  are  rarely  free,"  yet  if  free-will  endures 
but  an  instant  we  are  always  free.  Renan  advises 
us  to  act  as  if  we  were  really  possessed  of  free 
will.  "Duration  as  Duration,  Motion  as  Motion, 
elude  the  grasp  of  mathematics  ...  of  Time 
everything  slips  through  its  fingers  but  si 
multaneity,  and  of  movement  everything  but 
immobility."  (Time  and  Free- Will.)  But 
Bergson  could  also  write:  "In  the  Absolute  we 
live  and  move  and  have  our  being."  (Creative 
Evolution,  p.  199.)  "In  reality,  life  is  a  move 
ment,  materiality  is  the  inverse  movement,  and 
each  of  these  two  movements  is  simple,  the  mat 
ter  which  forms  a  world  being  an  undivided  flux, 
and  undivided  also  the  life  that  runs  through  it, 
cutting  in  it  living  beings  all  along  the  track." 
The  image  of  a  prow  sharply  cutting  the  stream 
of  consciousness — the  waters  of  life — and  creat 
ing  as  it  swims,  is  poetical  and  apposite.  It  may 
survive  the  Bergsonism  of  Bergson;  but  not  so 
novel  an  idea  as  one  finely  expressed.  Didn't 
the  late  Harald  Hoffding  say  that  we  live  for 
ward,  we  understand  backward?  From  Heracli- 
tus  to  Newman  the  student  encounters  variations 
of  this  imagery  on  the  theme  of  the  identity  of 

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the  living  universe.  "He  who  tastes  a  crust  of 
bread  has  tasted  of  the  universe,  even  to  the 
furthest  star/'  wrote  Paracelsus.  And  Leopardi 
said:  "All  the  ages  have  been  and  will  be  more 
or  less  periods  of  transition ;  since  human  society 
never  stands  still,  nor  will  there  ever  be  an  age 
in  which  it  will  be  stationary."  Some  one  has 
averred  that  Bergson  reasons  about  Free- Will  as 
the  astronomers  before  Copernicus  reasoned  on 
the  movements  of  the  sky.  His  Intuition  is  not 
as  convincing  as  the  Illative  Sense  of  John  Henry 
Newman.  In  the  Grammar  of  Assent  Cardinal 
Newman  wrote:  "His  progress  —  man's  —  is  a 
living  growth,  not  a  mechanism;  and  its  instru 
ments  are  mental  acts,  not  the  formulas  and 
contrivances  of  language."  But  didn't  Pascal 
exclaim:  "The  heart  hath  its  reasons,"  and  the 
heart  —  or  Sympathy,  Intuition  —  may  decide 
when  the  intellect  can  go  no  further.  Ludwig 
Feuerbach,  who  occupied  the  philosophic  affec 
tions  of  Richard  Wagner,  before  he  lost  them  to 
Schopenhauer,  once  wrote:  "God  was  my  first 
idea,  Reason  my  second,  and  Man  my  third  and 
last  thought.  Man  is  alone  and  must  be  our 
God.  No  salvation  outside  of  Man."  (Over 
capitalisation  of  words  is  another  vice  of  philoso 
phers,  which  Professor  James  did  not  include  in 
his  list  of  their  defects.)  Bergson  seemingly 
would  restore  Man  to  his  former  anthropocentric 
position  in  the  scheme  of  things  —  though  shorn 
of  his  intellectual  primacy.  Yet  he  insists  that 
he  is  not  an  idealist.  While  not  being  the  pro- 
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nounced  Pluralist  that  was  William  James,  he 
thinks  that  the  conceptual  vision  of  the  Absolute 
is  lacking  in  the  largeness  of  rhythm,  or  rhythmic 
periods,  which  characterise  Pluralism.  The  con 
sciousness  of  our  present  is  overflowed  by  the 
memory  of  our  past.  There  is  no  Now  in  the  old 
sense  of  the  word.  This  fluidity  of  a  real  Time  — 
not  a  metaphysical  abstract  —  is  the  best  thing 
in  the  Bergson  philosophy.  It  is  a  vital  idea. 
And  what  a  fairy-land  is  metaphysics,  a  million 
times  more  romantic  and  thrilling  than  any  fic 
tion;  indeed,  the  most  entrancing  fiction  in  liter 
ature,  both  ancient  and  modern,  is  philosophy. 
Fancy  such  an  astounding  assertion  as  that  "  in 
stinct  brings  us  into  closest  tie  with  the  universe." 
Bees  and  ants  ought  then  to  be  the  masters  of 
mankind.  Even  the  meticulous  guinea-pig  has  as 
good  a  chance  to  win  in  the  evolutionary  race  as 
the  Eleatic  tortoise  had  over  Achilles.  Perhaps 
the  time  will  come  when  metaphysics  will  occupy 
the  same  relative  position  to  real  thought  that 
astrology  does  to  astronomy  to-day.  But  Pas 
cal's  Abysm  —  the  unknowable  —  will  always 
be  at  the  side  of  mankind  to  disquiet  or  strike 
terror  to  his  heart.  Hence  the  world  will  ever 
listen  to  the  voice  of  the  philosopher  who  cries 
aloud  in  the  darkness:  "Lo!  I,  alone,  am  the 
bearer  of  light." 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 


III 

Some  objections:  William  James  writes  in  his 
A  Pluralistic  Universe:  " Intellectualism  has  its 
source  in  the  faculty  which  gives  us  our  chief 
superiority  to  the  brutes,  namely,  of  translating 
the  crude  flux  of  merely  feeling-experience  into  a 
conceptual  order."  He  admits  that,  "We  of 
course  need  a  stable  scheme  of  concepts,  stably 
related  to  one  another,  to  lay  hold  of  our  experi 
ences  and  to  co-ordinate  them  withal."  In  his 
The  Thing  and  Its  Relations  (the  volume  above 
quoted,  p.  351),  writing  of  the  intellect,  he  goes 
further:  "It  originated  as  a  practical  means  of 
serving  life;  but  it  has  developed  incidentally 
the  function  of  understanding  absolute  truth; 
and  life  itself  now  seems  to  be  given  chiefly  as  a 
means  by  which  that  function  may  be  prosecuted. 
But  truth  and  the  understanding  of  it  lie  among 
the  abstracts  and  universals,  so  the  intellect  now 
carries  on  its  higher  business  wholly  in  this 
region  without  any  need  of  redescending  into 
pure  experience  again."  (1905.)  Where  does 
Bergsonism  come  in  here?  "Absolute  truth!" 
James  has  confessed  that  the  Bergson  philosophy 
was  not  all  as  a  lantern  shining  on  a  dark  path 
way;  perhaps  he  scented  its  latent  "spiritual 
ism."  But  what  does  all  this  verbal  hair-split 
ting  mean  to  us  in  actual  life?  What  an  Ixion 
wheel!  Monism  or  Pluralism?  Idealism  or 
Realism?  Under  which  king?  A  comma  instead 

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PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

of  semicolon  may  wreck  a  philosophic  system. 
There  are  those  who  believe  that  the  misreading 
of  a  certain  holy  book  gave  birth  to  a  mighty  re 
ligion.  The  very  structure  of  our  cerebral  organ 
forces  us  to  think  by  associating  disjointed  ideas. 
Nevertheless  the  mechanistic  theory  has  the 
authority  of  experience,  and  even  if  James  does 
define  Empiricism  as  meaning  "the  habit  of  ex 
plaining  wholes  by  parts,  and  rationalism  means 
the  habit  of  explaining  the  parts  by  wholes" 
(and  strictly  speaking,  neither  one  nor  the  other 
explains),  we  must  pin  our  faith  not  to  meta 
physics,  but  to  the  more  tangible  results  of  sci 
ence,  which  moves  slowly  but  surely.  Modern 
philosophy  has  always  followed  science  like  a 
crow  the  furrow  of  a  well-sown  field,  picking  here 
and  there  a  seed.  Bergson  makes  a  great  show 
of  reverently  believing  the  tenets  of  science  but, 
at  the  first  opportunity,  flies  off  on  a  fiery-winged 
tangent  to  the  land  of  metaphysical  Nowhere. 
He  has  imagination,  though  not  much  humour; 
in  the  ironical  presentation  of  the  adversary's 
case  he  lags  far  behind  William  James.  His  sys 
tem  —  though  he  disclaims  having  any  —  is  im 
pressionistic,  it  also  straddles  between  the  real 
and  the  ideal,  and  flirts  with  both  the  mechanistic 
and  the  metaphysical.  In  his  Huxley  lecture  at 
the  University  of  Birmingham  (1911)  he  con 
cluded  that  "in  man,  though  in  man  alone,  con 
sciousness  pursues  its  path  beyond  this  earthly 
life."  Shades  of  Thomas  Huxley! 
We  find  some  of  the  ideas  of  Professor  Berg- 

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PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

son  in  the  works  of  Emile  Boutroux  ("De  la  con- 
tingence  des  lois  de  la  nature,"  1874),  and  also 
of  Renouvier.  The  germs  of  his  leading  ideas 
may  be  discovered  in  Nietzsche  —  that  sworn  foe 
of  metaphysics.  When  he  has  given  us  his  pro 
jected  Ethic  we  shall  see  then  what  bearing  his 
philosophy  has  upon  the  nature  of  judgments, 
as  a  pragmatic  reason  about  the  chief  use  for  the 
art  of  philosophising.  His  ^Esthetic,  too,  will 
surely  prove  of  interest  judging  from  his  essay 
on  Laughter  (Le  Rire,  1910).  In  it  are  swift 
if  not  satisfactory  generalisations,  and  a  plenti 
ful  lack  of  humour,  together  with  much  pol 
ished  writing.  I  prefer  George  Meredith's  less 
metaphysical  but  more  illuminative  essay  on 
Comedy. 

Bergsonism  is  riddled  with  paradox,  yet  it  is 
stimulating  as  just  another  multicoloured  picture 
of  the  universe  by  a  man  in  whom  the  philo 
sophical  play-instinct  (in  Schiller's  sense)  is  ele 
vated  to  a  fine  art.  For  him  the  vast  hinterland 
of  metaphysics,  the  "  unknowable"  of  philosophy, 
the  Fourth  Dimension  of  Space,  is  a  happy  hunt 
ing-ground  where  with  his  highly  burnished  meta 
physical  weapons  he  pops  away  at  Time  and 
Space  and  other  strange  fauna  of  that  misty  and 
tremendous  region.  He  exhibits  the  daring  of 
the  hardy  adventurer  and  he  occasionally  returns 
with  a  trophy  worth  while  —  but  always  heavily 
laden  with  the  flora.  All  the  rest  is  metaphysics. 
As  his  philosophy  is  mainly  an  affair  of  images  — 
delicately  fashioned  mosaics,  fairy-like  structures 


PLAYBOY  OF  WESTERN  PHILOSOPHY 

and  dazzling  mental  mirages  —  its  study  natu 
rally  begets  images.  That  is  why  I  call  the  image- 
maker,  Henri  Bergson,  the  Playboy  of  Western 
Philosophy. 


385 


XV 

A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS1 

Writing  a  preface  to  a  book  several  years  old 
is  not  necessarily  either  a  matter  of  prudence 
or  a  kind  of  belated  precipitation;  it  may  well 
be  only  that  fatal  itch  of  the  author  who  is  not 
satisfied  to  leave  sleeping  hornets  unawakened. 
Possibly  because  I  was  rudely  twitted  on  the  ap 
pearance  of  Egoists  for  its  lack  of  general  ideas  — 
as  I  surely  shall  be  about  the  present  volume — I 
gently  hasten  to  print  an  apology  for  the  omis 
sion  of  something  I  do  not  believe  in,  the  fa 
mous  " general  ideas";  also  missing  in  my  Icono 
clasts  as  I  was  reminded  by  a  French  critic,  M. 
Loyson.  That  book  contained  no  preface  which 
might  have  helped  the  reader  across  arid  and 
thorny  definitions;  no  friendly  footnotes;  not 
even  a  postlude  instead  of  a  preface,  in  which 
would  be  found  a  neat  little  theory  of  a  school 
or  a  "stream  of  tendencies";  no  special  applica 
tion  of  the  art  of  plumbing  to  doctrines  held  by 
various  dramatists.  I  confess  I  am  still  a  sceptic 
as  to  the  value  ojf  "  general  ideas,"  believing  more 
in  their  dissociation,  as  practised  by  Remy  de 
Gourmont.  A  " general  idea,"  for  example,  is 
the  so-called  period  of  transition  used  with  such 
•Egoists;  published  1909,  New  York,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
386 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

effect  by  writers  of  aesthetic  history.  Liszt  was 
a  "  Transitional "  composer,  according  to  Bay- 
reuth;  a  musical  John  the  Baptist  sent  to  pre 
pare  the  way  for  the  musical  Messiah,  Richard 
Wagner.  So,  too,  Berlioz.  That  these  men, 
the  Frenchman  and  the  Hungarian,  were  each  a 
unicum,  a  perfectly  distinct  personality,  and  the 
inventor  of  something  never  before  heard,  is  but 
the  truth.  Manet,  Richard  Strauss,  Ibsen,  have 
already  been  placed  in  the  "  Transitional "  class 
by  writers  over-eager  for  to-morrow's  crop  of 
painters,  composers,  and  dramatists.  How  can 
we  say  that  our  period  is  " Transitional"  till  it 
has  vanished  in  the  vortex  of  the  past?  But  M. 
Bergson  says  all  "Time"  is  transitional!  How 
do  these  pundits  catch  their  perspective  before 
they  have  finished  their  foreground? 

And  now  what  is  to  be  conjured  up  from  the 
dreams  of  all  the  jostling  personalities  in  Egoists 
—  the  original  title  of  which  was  The  Ivory 
Tower  —  those  madmen,  wits,  saints,  and  sin 
ners?  I  could  have  decked  out  its  pages  with  an 
ingenious  introduction  which  would  set  forth  the 
facts  that  Stendhal  was  the  first  "modern"  phil 
osophic  Egoist  —  he,  the  most  unphilosophic  of 
men;  that  Baudelaire  was  the  Dante  of  the 
decadence,  a  topsy-turvy  Catullus  to  whom  the 
"joy  of  life"  was  denied;  that  Flaubert  was 
a  lyric  prophet,  a  philosopher  and  realistic 
historian;  that  Anatole  France  is  a  miraculous 
and  tantalising  sceptic,  who,  au  fond,  despises 
humanity  more  than  any  of  his  cenobites,  and 

387 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

never  ceases  to  depreciate  moral  values,  though 
with  the  triumphant  air  of  a  physician  who  has 
discovered  an  interesting  malady.  Into  what 
cadre  must  Anatole  France  be  fitted!  He  is 
pagan.  He  is  Hebraic.  And  he  adores  the  Fa 
thers  of  the  Church.  Is  he  not  a  latter-day  ex 
pression  of  the  Eternal  Mocker,  a  French  Heine 
sans  the  lyric  genius  of  the  Jewish  Aristophanes? 
If  he  is  not,  does  it  much  matter?  Rather  let 
the  question  be  settled  by  the  reader,  in  whose 
intelligence  I  have  firm  faith.  Remember  that 
I  have  not  suggested  this  inutile  scheme  of  clas 
sification;  but  there  are  those  who  demand  it, 
and  in  the  domain  of  music  they,  lacking  all 
fancy,  will  tell  you  that  it  is  immoral  to  put  the 
thumb  on  the  black  keys  of  a  pianoforte  when 
playing  a  prelude  of  Bach. 

Now,  there  is  Huysmans,  what  more  need  be 
said  of  this  extraordinary  soul?  One  morning  he 
awoke  and  thirsted  for  God ;  gods  in  some  shape 
or  other  have  been  always  a  necessity  for  man 
kind;  though  there  were  atheists  before  the  in 
vention  of  mirrors.  (It  is  impossible  for  a  man 
not  to  believe  in  a  god  when  he  shaves  himself. 
Tender  masculine  egoists!)  Barres  shows  us 
the  importance  of  being  Maurice;  &}auteuil  in 
the  Academy  would  still  be  for  him  a  delectable 
dream  if  he  had  not  kept  this  notion  well  in  view. 
0  the  starry  music  of  self-esteem !  Of  the  mystics 
what  may  not  be  written?  "Soft  and  terrible, 
foul  and  fair,"  as  Yeats  has  it.  To  me  they  seem 
the  sanest  folk  in  a  world  full  of  futile  sounds  and 
388 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

gestures.  They  write  with  more  precision  than 
rationalistic  thinkers,  because  they  have  the 
vision.  And  most  mystics  are  anarchs.  Ibsen 
is  a  thrice- told  critical  tale;  like  the  earlier  Wag 
ner  works  his  first  plays  are  in  the  mists.  To 
day,  Nora  Helmer  would  not  slam  that  front 
door;  her  husband  would  probably  be  the  one  to 
leave,  though  not  for  ever  —  like  Hjalmar  Ekdal 
—  for  a  drink  or  two  while  away  from  the  doll's 
house.  Women  have  changed  since  the  days  of 
Nora;  they  were  always  realists,  to-day  they  are 
pragmatists,  and,  as  Jules  Laforgue  declared, 
"  Stability,  thy  name  is  Woman."  That  is  at 
once  her  charm  and  her  fate. 

Max  S timer  is  the  enfant  terrible  of  the  Lu 
theran  doctrine  of  private  judgment.  Of  him  I 
said  that  ours  is  the  best  of  possible  worlds  —  if 
we  don't  abide  in  it  too  long.  It  is  the  menace 
of  eternity,  whether  it  is  to  be  spent  aloft  or  in 
the  nethermost  region,  that  is  so  disconcerting  to 
those  who  beat  against  the  bars  of  their  prison, 
the  appalling  prison  of  Self.  Ernest  Renan,  oily, 
sacerdotal,  most  fascinating  of  sophists,  had  an 
equal  horror  of  paradise,  a  place  of  perpetual 
ennui,  as  he  had  of  hades,  so  he  diplomatically 
preferred  purgatory.  But  isn't  there  an  ancient 
adage  to  the  effect  that  in  hell  it  is  considered 
bad  form  to  speak  of  the  heat!  I  know  of  noth 
ing  more  sinister  than  Nietzsche's  doctrine  of 
the  Eternal  Recurrence.  To  be  born  ever  anew 
makes  Nirvana  as  welcome  as  ice  to  lips  parched 
by  the  fires  of  Tophet.  Nietzsche,  too,  how 

389 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

many  pages  might  be  devoted  to  him  and  his 
rainbow  thoughts.  What  is  one  man's  gehenna 
may  be  the  heaven  of  another.  Like  Pascal, 
like  Flaubert,  like  Huysmans,  Nietzsche  elected 
the  dark  and  narrow  path  of  pain.  Set  this  down 
to  a  neurosis  —  do  not  forget  he  was  the  first  to 
diagnose  his  trouble  as  spiritual  decadence  —  or 
to  any  modish  psychical  fads  you  will,  the  fact 
remains  that  he  saw  certain  " terrible"  truths 
that  would  not  have  been  realised  if  his  brain  had 
remained  normal.  The  world  is  the  gainer  there 
by.  Fancy  a  man  mortally  wounded  registering 
with  rectitude  his  symptoms.  This  Nietzsche 
did.  Very  often  sick  souls  discover  robust 
truths.  Healthy-minded  men  are  seldom  path 
finders  of  the  spirit.  Nietzsche's  sickness  was  of 
the  soul,  and  while  George  Moore  has  said  that 
"  self-esteem  is  synonymous  with  genius,"  the 
pride  of  Nietzsche  became  a  monstrous  atrophy 
of  the  Ego.  Yet  we  must  perforce  admire  the 
bravery  of  this  giant  scholar  who  burned  his 
books  behind  him,  thus  believing  to  "free"  him 
self.  He  was  a  neo-pagan  who  defiantly  cried: 
I  have  conquered,  Galilean!  And  in  an  age  that 
is  almost  pyrrhonistic  Nietzsche  at  least  believed 
in  something,  believed  that  Christianity  was  on 
trial  and  found  wanting ;  whereas  his  contempo 
raries  in  the  world  of  intellect,  for  the  most  part, 
didn't  care  who  ruled,  Jove  or  Jesus,  Jehovah  or 
Buddha.  The  pathetic  side  of  the  Nietzsche  case 
is  his  naive  belief  in  the  power  of  the  written 
word.  He  thought  that  his  verbal  dynamite  had 

390 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

mined  Christianity.  Perhaps  his  time-fuse  has 
been  set  ahead  one  or  more  centuries.  Neverthe 
less,  his  is  a  grandiose  vision  of  humanity.  His 
Superman,  the  penultimate  evolution  of  a  gorilla 
into  a  god,  is  a  plastic  clay  figure  in  the  hands  of 
this  dream-potter;  a  promise,  a  Beyond.  Who 
knows,  whether  long  after  the  last  performance  of 
Wagner's  Ring  and  its  socialistic  sonorities,  the 
august  name  of  Friedrich  Nietzsche  will  not  be 
sounded  through  golden  horns  from  the  belfries 
of  the  world?  This  is  not  a  hazard  at  prediction, 
only  a  chess-play  of  inference. 

Said  the  wise  Goethe  —  the  wisest  man  since 
Montaigne  —  "In  der  Beschrankung  zeigt  sich 
erst  dcr  Meister."  All  these  heroes  have  their 
limitations;  though  they  may  not  be  Supermen 
they  have  attacked  the  slopes  of  Parnassus, 
far  above  the  goose-land  of  altruism;  that 
land  now  filled  with  the  discordant  sounds  of 
equality  quackery.  Philosophic  Egoism  is  at 
least  free  from  the  depressing  sentimentality  of 
"going  to  the  people."  Brotherhood  of  Man! 
Brotherhood  of  fudge  and  hypocrisy!  No  one 
sincerely  believes  in  it;  it's  a  catch-word  for 
gulls  and  politicians.  How  much  is  in  it  for 
us?  sums  up  the  programme  of  the  professional 
altruists.  Rousseau,  not  Nietzsche,  is  the  real 
Antichrist,  for  he  invented  that  lying  legend: 
Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity  —  that  seductive 
three-voiced  Cerberus-like  fugue,  which  has  led 
millions  sheep-wise  over  the  precipice  of  false 
hopes. 

391 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

But  the  accusation  that  Egoists,  like  Icono 
clasts,  lacked  " general  ideas"  did  not  seem  as 
curious  to  me  as  the  insinuation  made  by  certain 
reviewers  that  the  writers  treated  in  Egoists 
were  more  or  less  negligible.  I  was  gently  re 
minded  that  Victor  Hugo,  Lamartine,  De  Musset, 
Balzac,  and  several  others  were  of  more  impor 
tance  than  my  selected  heroes  of  the  ink-pot. 
Who  said  they  weren't?  Only  they  are  not  of 
the  same  importance  to-day  as  they  were  over 
a  half  century  ago.  The  "  main-currents "  of 
French  literature,  i.  e.,  Continental  literature, 
were  traversed  and  dominated  during  the  past 
fifty  years  by  Stendhal  —  to  whom  Tolstoy  ad 
mits  his  indebtedness  —  by  Flaubert,  by  Baude 
laire  (in  poetry  and  criticism  particularly),  by 
Nietzsche,  by  Max  Stirner  (who  played  a  role 
in  the  intellectual  development  of  Nietzsche), 
and  in  a  minor  degree  by  Barres,  Huysmans,  and 
Anatole  France.  To  Stendhal  the  world  owes 
the  analytical  novel  —  he  wasn't  its  creator  but 
he  gave  the  genre  its  definite  mould  —  and  from 
Flaubert  stern  naturalists,  symbolists;  even  a 
new  school  of  philosophy,  Le  Bovaryisme  of  Jules 
Gualtier.  And  Baudelaire  was  the  most  original 
poet  of  his  day.  He  brought  into  the  domain  of 
poesy  new  subject-matter,  a  wellnigh  incredible 
achievement.  These  men  quite  filled  the  liter 
ary  firmament  of  Europe  and  to  patronise  them 
as  do  some  critics  for  not  being  giants  of  the  stat 
ure  of  Hugo  or  Balzac  or  Chateaubriand  is  to 
ring  a  new  change  on  the  pathetic  fallacy.  The 

392 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

fact  remains  that  they  were  the  chief  forces  of 
their  period;  European  literature  still  feels  the 
impact  of  their  personalities.  They  made  his 
tory  and  any  one  who  can  run  and  is  not  blind 
may  read  this  history.  No  doubt  when  the  cor 
ridor  of  time  lengthens  between  them  and  newer 
generations  the  pathos  of  distance  will  again 
operate  and  fresh  critical  perspective  form. 

Let  me  confess  that  the  thinkers  united  under 
the  title  of  "Egoists"  are  a  fortuitous  grouping. 
No  particular  theory  of  life  is  adduced  there 
from;  if  you  believe  in  the  salve  of  "altruism," 
then,  as  William  James  would  say,  it  is  your 
truth;  or,  if  you  follow  Walter  Pater's  poetic 
injunction,  and  burn  always  with  a  clear,  hard 
flame  of  some  artistic  enthusiasm,  go  ahead  and 
burn,  but  watch  yourself — that  way  neurasthenia 
lies.  Nearly  all  the  men  in  the  book  lived  their 
lives  "to  the  fullest";  and  were  generally  un 
happy.  Those  who  returned  to  belief  in  religion 
seemed  happy.  At  this  juncture  I  sha'n't  ex 
claim:  Ergo!  However,  it  is  a  holy  and  whole 
some  act  to  retire  to  the  "seven  solitudes"  of 
your  ivory  tower  and  there  come  face  to  face 
with  the  one  reality  in  this  world  of  fluctuating 
images  —  your  own  soul  (your  "subliminal  self," 
is  the  precise  psychic  slang-phrase). 

John  Henry  Newman,  in  his  Apologia,  spoke 
of  "the  thought  of  two  and  two  only  absolute 
and  luminously  self-evident  beings,  myself  and 
my  Creator."  That  is  a  crystallisation  of  the 
Higher  Egoism.  For  dolorous  souls,  disenchanted 

393 


A  BELATED  PREFACE  TO  EGOISTS 

by  the  deceptions  of  life,  these  words  of  Car 
dinal  Newman  light  the  strait  and  difficult 
pathway  to  the  veritable  Turris  Eburnea.  But 
for  those  to  whom  the  world  is  a  place  to 
collect  bric-a-brac,  stale  "  truths,"  reputations 
for  respectability,  other  people's  money,  and 
earth-worms,  the  aphorism  of  Nietzsche  must 
suffice  as  an  epitaph:  "Some  souls  will  never  be 
discovered  unless  they  be  first  invented." 


394 


BOOKS     BY     JAMES     HUNEKER 

What  some  distinguished  writers  have  said  of  them  : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do  you  know 
that  '  Iconoclasts '  is  the  only  book  of  high  and  universal  critical 
worth  that  we  have  had  for  years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg 
Brandes.  It  is  at  once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indul 
gent  and  sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among  other 
things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and  clarity  with 
which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  literary  and  artistic  move 
ments  in  all  countries.  I  do  not  know  of  criticism  more  pure 
and  sure  than  yours."  (October,  1915.) 


"The  Mercure  de  France  translated  the  other  day  from  Scrib- 
ner's  one  of  the  best  studies  which  have  been  written  on  Stendhal 
for  a  long  time,  in  which  there  was  no  evasion  of  the  question 
of  Stendhal's  immorality.  The  author  of  that  article,  James 
Huneker,  is,  among  foreign  critics,  the  one  best  acquainted 
with  French  literature  and  the  one  who  judges  us  with  the  great 
est  sympathy  and  with  the  most  freedom.  He  has  protested 
with  force  in  numerous  American  journals  against  the  cam 
paign  of  defamation  against  France,  and  he  has  easily  proved 
that  those  who  participate  in  it  are  ignorant  and  fanatical." 
— "Promenades  Litteraires"  (Troisieme  Sfrie),  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont.  (Translated  by  Burton  Rascoe  for  the  Chicago  Tribune.) 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  1909,  of  "Egoists": 
"I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of  your  book  and  found 
that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic  style  on  diverse  problems, 
artistic  and  literary.  In  the  case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity 
of  treatment  is  extremely  rare  and  courageous." 


Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound  Danish  critic, 
wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view  and  its  expression  more 
European  than  American;  but  the  essential  thing  is  that  you 
are  an  artist  to  your  very  marrow." 


BOOKS    BY     JAMES     HUNEKER 

BEDOUINS 

Mary  Garden;  Debussy;  Chopin  or  the  Circus;  Botticelli; 
Poe;  Brahmsody;  Anatole  France;  Mirbeau;  Caruso  on 
Wheels;  Calico  Cats;  the  Artistic  Temperament;  Idols  and 
Ambergris;  With  the  Supreme  Sin;  Grindstones;  A  Masque 
of  Music,  and  The  Vision  Malefic. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Huneker  knows  the  magic  of  turning  the  com 
monest  fact  of  literature  or  art  into  a  gorgeous  fiction.  .  .  . 
'Bedouins,'  like  all  of  the  author's  books,  is  a  thing  apart  in 
our  literature." — BENJAMIN  DE  CASSERES,  New  York  Times. 

"If  there  is  ever  a  real  culture  in  this  country  its  roots  will 
run  in  many  directions;  but  historians  will  not  dig  very  far 
before  they  run  across  the  Huneker-root,  not  only  because  of 
its  tremendous  vitality  and  world-tentacles,  but  because  of  its 
stark  individualism  and  militant  sap.  He  is  the  greatest  of 
patriots  who  raises  the  intellectual  levels  of  his  country;  and 
James  Huneker  is  therefore,  to  me,  the  greatest  of  living  Amer 
icans." — Musical  America. 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

"His  critical  tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  .  .  .  His  position 
among  writers  on  aesthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:  no 
merchant  traffics  in  his  heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager, 
an  affectionate  public.  Is  it  because  he  is  both  vivid  and  acute, 
robust  yet  fine-fingered,  tolerant  yet  unyielding,  astringent  yet 
tender — a  mellow  pessimist,  a  kindly  cynic?  Or  is  it  rather 
because  he  is,  primarily,  a  temperament — dynamic,  contagious, 
lovable,  inveterately  alive — expressing  itself  through  the  most 
transparent  of  the  arts?" 
— LAWRENCE  OILMAN,  in  North  A  merican  Review  (October,  1915). 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  music  in  the  first  place,  is  a 
craftsman  of  diverse  accomplishment  who  occupies  a  distinctive 
and  distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists. 
He  is  intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers, 
and  not  lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  He 
flings  off  his  impressions  at  fervent  heat;  he  is  not  ashamed  to 
be  enthusiastic;  and  he  cannot  escape  that  large  sentimentality 
which,  to  less  disciplined  transatlantic  writers,  is  known  nakedly 
as  'heart  interest.'  Out  of  his  chaos  of  reading  and  observation 
he  has,  however,  evolved  a  criticism  of  life  that  makes  for  in 
tellectual  cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bohemian  rather  than 
an  academic  kind." — London  Athenceum  (November  6,  1915). 


BOOKS     BY     JAMES     HUNEKER 

UNICORNS 

"The  essays  are  short,  full  of  a  satisfying — and  fascinating — 

crispness,  both  memorable  and  delightful.    And  they  are  full  of 

fancy,  too,  of  the  gayest  humor,  the  quickest  appreciation,  the 

gentlest  sympathy,  sometimes  of  an  enchanting  extravagance." 

— New  York  Times. 

MELOMANIACS 

"It  wouM  be  difficult  to  sum  up  ' Melomaniacs '  in  a  phrase. 
Never  did  a  book,  in  my  opinion  at  any  rate,  exhibit  greater 
contrasts,  not,  perhaps,  of  strength  and  weakness,  but  of  clear 
ness  and  obscurity." 
— HAROLD  E.  GORST,  in  London  Saturday  Review  (Dec.  8,  1906). 

VISIONARIES 

"In  'The  Spiral  Road'  and  in  some  of  the  other  stories  both 
fantasy  and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in 
his  most  unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his 
Nietzsche  and  has  cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Haw 
thorne's  Puritanism  finds  no  echo  in  these  modern  souls,  all 
sceptical,  wavering,  and  unblessed.  But  Hawthorne's  splendor 
of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with  a  tormented  mind 
do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.  Huneker's  stories." 

— London  Academy  (Feb.  3,  1906). 

ICONOCLASTS :  A  Book  of  Dramatists. 

"His  style  is  a  little  jerky,  but  is  one  of  those  rare  styles  in 
which  we  are  led  to  expect  some  significance,  if  not  wit,  in  every 
sentence." — G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  London  Daily  News. 


MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC 

"Mr.  Huneker  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a  critic;  he  listens  to 
the  music  and  gives  you  his  impressions  as  rapidly  and  in  as 
few  words  as  possible;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine, 
broad,  sweeping  strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  un 
important  details.  And  as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a 
powerful  personality,  a  man  of  quick  brain  and  an  energetic 
imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  temperament — a  string  that 
vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — we  get  in  these  essays 
of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable  contribution  to 
the  world's  tiny  musical  literature." 

— J.  F.  RUNCIMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Review. 


BOOKS    BY     JAMES     HUNEKER 

FRANZ  LISZT 

WITH  NUMEROUS   ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHOPIN :  The  Man  and  His  Music 


OVERTONES :  A  Book  of  Temperaments 

WITH  FRONTISPIECE   PORTRAIT   OF   RICHARD   STRAUSS 

"In  some  respects  Mr.  Huneker  must  be  reckoned  the  most 
brilliant  of  all  living  writers  on  matters  musical." 

— Academy,  London. 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 

"He  talks  about  Bergson  as  well  as  Matisse;  he  never  can 
keep  still  about  Wagner;  he  hauls  over  his  French  library  of 
modern  immortals,  and  he  gives  a  touch  to  George  Moore,  to 
Arthur  Davies,  and  to  many  another  valiant  worker  in  paint, 
music,  and  letters.  The  book  is  stimulating;  brilliant  even 
with  an  unexpected  brilliancy." — Chicago  Tribune. 


PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST 

"We  like  best  such  sober  essays  as  those  which  analyze  for 
us  the  technical  contributions  of  Cezanne  and  Rodin.  Here 
Mr.  Huneker  is  a  real  interpreter,  and  here  his  long  experience 
of  men  and  ways  in  art  counts  for  much.  Charming,  in  the 
slighter  vein,  are  such  appreciations  as  the  Monticelli  and  Char- 
din." — FRANK  JEWETT  MATHER,  JR.,  in  New  York  Nation  and 
Evening  Post.  

EGOISTS 

WITH  PORTRAIT   AND   FACSIMILE   REPRODUCTIONS 

"Closely  and  yet  lightly  written,  full  of  facts,  yet  as  amusing 
as  a  bit  of  discursive  talk,  penetrating,  candid,  and  very 
shrewd." — ROYAL  CORTISSOZ,  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWB! 

LOAN  DEPT. 


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